


Spring Crocuses

by KHansen



Series: Blossoms in Their Bouquet [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood, Elf Jaskier | Dandelion, F/F, F/M, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geralt's kinda dumb but he's got the spirit, Gore, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Has a Past, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Jaskier's a badass, Kidnapping, M/M, Monsters, No Smut, Post s1e06, Post s1e08, Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, Suicidal Ideation, Swearing, Torture, alternating pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:15:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 65,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23242366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KHansen/pseuds/KHansen
Summary: When Geralt is kidnapped by Nilfgaardian soldiers with the intentions of torturing him until they discover the location of Princess Cirilla, Yennefer decides to find the one other person she knows Geralt trusts. She'd heard rumors about the bard not being the same anymore since the dragon hunt, but she didn't expect the man she found in his stead. Will this time-hardened Jaskier be willing to help her rescue Geralt from Nilfgaard's clutches?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Blossoms in Their Bouquet [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681690
Comments: 265
Kudos: 1145
Collections: Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry





	1. Down the Mountain

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! In the face of quarantine I've somehow found inspiration, which is something I haven't had in a very long time. I will try to upload chapters every 1-2 days, as I don't have much else to do right now other than write anyway. Please let me know how you enjoy the story and if there is anything you think I can improve upon as it's been a long time since I've written anything. Thank you!

_ If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands! _

The angry words seem to echo around Jaskier’s head, bouncing off the sides of his skull as though he doesn’t have a brain at all. Geralt had looked so angry, so heartbroken by Yennefer, Jaskier had only wanted to cheer him up. He recognizes now that he may have been a little tactless, he hasn’t quite been himself since the Djinn really, but hindsight is twenty twenty and there isn’t much he can do about it now.

Jaskier gathers up his things after quickly talking to the others to get their accounts of the dragon fight, tucking his bedroll into his pack and glances back at the Witcher standing on the edge of the cliff one more time. When Geralt doesn’t turn to look at him Jaskier sighs and slings his pack on his back, hanging his lute case from his shoulder and beginning the hike down the mountain with his face pinched in a deep frown as he’s left to his own thoughts. The rest of the band had already dispersed, the dwarves no doubt using hidden tunnels to traverse the mountain and Borch having seemingly disappeared once more, leaving Jaskier to hike alone. 

_ Why is it, whenever I find myself in a pile of shit, it’s always you shoveling it? _

That wasn’t fair… was it? Jaskier feels his face draw tighter in a deeper frown as he bites his lip, his boots crunching over the dirt and gravel of the path. It wasn’t his fault that bad things happened to Geralt, it was unfortunate timing that he happened to be present for the listed ones. The Child Surprise, the Djinn… they weren’t because of him. Sure, it was Jaskier who had lead them to Queen Calanthe’s courts that day and yeah, maybe he had fought with Geralt over the Djinn. But they’d been friends for 10 years! He was concerned!

_ If life could give me one blessing… _

Jaskier didn’t think he was much of an authority on life or Destiny, but Geralt had had blessing’s before, right? He feels his eyes starting to burn as his feeble attempts to console himself grow weaker. Let’s see, what other blessings has Geralt had? Oh! When Jaskier wrote “Toss a Coin”, it became a huge hit and helped alleviate some of the animosity against Witchers. But then again… Jaskier had sort of forced himself upon Geralt to get that story for the ballad. And then when Geralt told him not to follow him after the whole event Jaskier hadn’t listened. But they became dear friends! Or so he thought.

_...it would be to take you off my hands! _

The tears were fully rolling down Jaskier’s cheeks now, but he didn’t lift a hand to wipe them away. He was so tired, and he thought he didn’t understand what he’d done to deserve Geralt’s ire, but he thinks he’s starting to. He’s been a terrible travel companion, no wonder Geralt quipped about Téa or Véa being a better one than he. But was it a quip? Was any of it actual banter? Or was all of it just exasperation as Geralt was forced again and again to bear the burden of having the bard at his side. He knew he tested Geralt’s patience, but he’d always thought it was a friendly jest. Naivete, he knows now. Geralt never liked him, his long Witcher lifespan just made it easier to bear having the annoying bard around for 12 years. 

Jaskier hadn’t noticed he reached where they left the horses until he nearly ran into Roach, who whinnies at him softly. He looks up with his red-rimmed eyes and tear stained cheeks and tries to give her a weak smile, patting her neck as he pulls his last sugar cube out of his pocket, “That’a girl, Roach. I’m going to just recover some of my things from your bags and then be on my way.” Roach takes the delicacy from his palm and eyes him as she crunches it between her teeth, huffing a hot breath into his hand before nuzzling it gently. Jaskier pets her softly before going to the saddle bag, trading his doublet for something a little warmer and grabbing his cloak as well, draping the doublet over the side of the saddle bag until he’s ready to fold it neatly and tuck it into his own pack again.

“I love you dearly, Roach,” Jaskier says emphatically once he’s closed up the saddle bags once more, pressing his forehead against Roach’s and closing his eyes, “I’m sorry to be leaving, but it’s what Geralt wants. He’d like me gone from his life, no longer a burden on his shoulders. And who am I to deny him such a simple wish?” Jaskier’s voice breaks as he runs his fingers through Roach’s mane for a few more moments and then straightens up, “Be a good girl now, keep him safe as you always do.” Roach lowers her gaze, in what could be taken as an acknowledgement, and Jaskier nods with a watery smile before continuing down the path.

_ Why is it, whenever I find myself in a pile of shit, it’s always you shoveling it? _

Jaskier does nothing to stop the tears as they continue silently, his shoulders shaking and his breath heaving softly in his chest. He deserves this, how could he have been so blind? He should have known Geralt wouldn’t want him around, who does? He has far too many enemies and far too few friends. Scratch that, his friend count has dropped to exactly zero now. Zilch. Nada. No one in their right mind would want to be friends with him, that’s why he always has to force people to be his friend. He’d originally blamed it on his elven heritage, but even with the glamor on… no, he has to face the music. It’s him that people don’t like.

Jaskier is stuck in his head, silently descending the mountain, for hours. He’s so distracted that he doesn’t notice it’s nightfall until he very nearly steps off of a ledge of a small ravine, gasping loudly and jumping back from his almost certain doom. “Gods above,” he murmurs to himself as he looks up and around. He doesn’t recognize where he is at all, this is not good. Something rustles in a bush nearby and he turns his head, straining his ears and staring into the darkness. What he wouldn’t give to have supernatural Witcher hearing and sight right now instead of his stupid human senses. Just another thing that was dragging Geralt down he supposes. He could remove the glamor and restore his elven senses but restoring the glamor isn’t as easy as putting a necklace back on.

The rustling moves through the trees along the path that follows the ravine, quickly coming closer to Jaskier. He needs to make a decision, and the one he decides to make is to unsheath the silver dagger that’s tucked in his boot and sprint down the path towards the rustling. He’s hopeful that his sudden movement will startle whatever this creature is enough that he can get by it, the dangerous ravine a constant presence in his peripheral. No such luck for Jaskier though as nekker shrieks and grunts fill the air, the ground beneath his boots rumbling as they tunnel below him.

“Fuck!” He shouts and keeps running. He knows it’s pointless to try and outrun nekkers, they’re simply too fast, but he can at least try and make it to the clearing so he has some semblance of a chance of survival. One nekker he can probably survive, given he’s prepared and expecting it. But the beasts travel in hunting bands, making it almost impossible to fight one at a time. Jaskier’s going to just have to do his best, and pray to Melitele that he makes it out the other side.

Luck shines on him on this night as he makes it to the clearing and is able to move away from the ravine before the nekkers emerge from the earth, four of them converging on him at once. Jaskier is loath to admit it, but he gives a rather undignified scream as he dodges the sharp claws of the creatures. He would give anything for a sword, or a pike, or even Geralt, as embarrassing as it would be to be rescued by him right now, than be armed with only a dagger and his wits against four nekkers. But no one is coming, and a dagger is all he has, so his wits and a dagger it is.

Jaskier squints his eyes before widening them to allow as much moonlight in as possible, allowing him to see which nekker has the red clay smeared across its face that marks it as chieftain of this pack. If he can dispose of that one, in theory the others will be less coordinated. A hint of dull red catches his eye against the ugly gray of the nekker skin and Jaskier dives out of the way of the claws again, rolling and swiping at the nekker with his small silver dagger. He manages to nick the side of the chieftain, its flesh hissing and sizzling as the silver burns it and the nekker shrieks in outrage. The other three nekkers dive underground once more but Jaskier doesn’t have time to try to track where they’re going, focussing his attention on the chieftain in front of him.

It’s a stupid idea, he knows it is, and if Geralt were here he’d yell at Jaskier, but Geralt isn’t here and Jaskier is arguably very stupid in combat so he dives at the nekker chieftain, catching it off gaurd, and plunges the silver blade into the eye socket of the damned thing. The bones in its skull crunch and give way to the dagger, allowing the weapon to pierce the nekker chieftain’s brain and killing it. The other three nekkers shriek underground, the sounds muffled, before one emerges behind Jaskier and grabs him. The nekkers claws rake down the back of his thigh, making him cry out, before catching on the leather of his boot and closing around his ankle. The nekker then hauls Jaskier underground with surprising strength, pulling the man into the nekker tunnels. 

Jaskier had enough sense to tighten his grip on the dagger and it had pulled free of the chieftain’s skull, entering the dimly lit tunnel with him. The dark red blood on the blade is black in the pale moonlight, that same black staining the skin of his hands and the fabric of his doublet beneath his dull cloak. Jaskier strains his ears as he listens for the sounds of the nekkers, shakily climbing to his feet and crouching in the low tunnel. Maybe he’s gotten lucky again and they’ve run away. He can certainly climb out of this hole, it’s shallow enough.

No such luck this time though as a nekker shriek echoes down the tunnel from behind him and a heavy weight lands on his back, knocking him forwards onto his knees. His shredded hamstring screams and his leg is hot from his own blood as he grunts and reaches over his head to grab the damned nekker, “get off me you son of a whore!” While Jaskier’s able to grab under the nekker’s arm, when he starts to pull it over his head to get it in front of him it clamps down on his shoulder with its razor sharp teeth and Jaskier screams in pain, stars bursting in front of his eyes. Careless about where he could hit, he starts stabbing in the vicinity of the pain and is rewarded by the sound of the knife sinking into the flesh of the nekker and the sizzle of the nekker’s flesh. The beast shrieks and releases Jaskier’s shoulder and he makes quick work of slitting its throat and climbing out of the hole before either of the other two can get the drop on him.

Jaskier clambers out of the tunnel, soil in his hair and blood on his person, and as much as he wants to get as far away from here as possible he doesn’t. He pauses to listen once more, to hear if the last two will try to follow him. When it seems like they won’t as their chieftain is dead so they should find another pack, Jaskier sighs in relief and climbs to his feet, getting one of his other doublets out of his pack and using his dagger to tear it into makeshift bandages that he wraps around his leg and his shoulder. His face feels wet so he touches his cheek and is surprised to see blood and not tears, so he cleans the dagger and uses the reflective surface to see if he’s injured and is startled to see a long gash from just below his eye all the way across his cheek to his jaw. The nekker must have swiped at him, or he nicked himself with the knife, either way he didn’t feel it when it happened. Most likely from the adrenaline that still pumps through his veins.

After patching himself up, Jaskier continues his trek along this path. While he’s not sure exactly where he is, if there’s a path then it must lead somewhere. He only hopes it’s civilization and not certain doom. And he finds the next day to his exhausted delight that it leads to a small town, barely more than two dozen houses and a marketplace, but large enough to have a combination tavern and inn. Jaskier’s sure he’s a sight to behold as he limps into the tavern, a bard covered in filth and blood is not a common occurrence, and he makes his way to the bar.

“How much is a room for a night?” He asks quietly. He had glanced around when he entered to make sure he wasn’t intruding on Geralt, and to his relief the Witcher wasn’t here. But just in case… he’ll be quiet. He can’t be too careful right now.

“15 crown,” the barkeep looks at Jaskier up and down, “The hell happened to you?”

“More trouble than it was worth,” Jaskier sighs and pulls out his purse, counting out 15 crowns. He only has a meager amount of his own money, usually pooling his coin with the Witcher for necessities and keeping a small amount for himself to care for his lute or buy himself finery. The barkeep takes the money and hands Jaskier a key.

“Room 3, on your left down the hall,” he nods his head towards a door beside the bar and Jaskier nods his appreciation.

“Thank you, good sir, and how might I go about bathing in this fine establishment?” Jaskier tries to turn on the charm, hopeful to score a free meal if he can. Or at the very least a drink. His waterskin ran out yesterday and he’s never been as good at trapping as Geralt.

“I’ll send somebody to fill the tub for you,” the barkeep looks mildly annoyed, “now if you ain’t gonna buy anything else, keep moving. If you wanna play, bard, you’re welcome to.”

“I’d be delighted to, after a quick bath,” Jaskier smiles brightly and walks through the door beside the bar, heading into his room and taking off his things. A woman comes by to fill the tub after a few minutes before leaving again and Jaskier sinks into the hot water with a groan as it hits his sore muscles. He grimaces when the water touches the tender flesh of his wounds, but the heat will help prevent infection so he subjects himself to the discomfort anyway.

Jaskier looks over at the lute case on the table and sighs, he shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth, he’s already got the permission of the barkeep to entertain the masses and it’s a good way to earn some quick coin. So once he’s finished bathing and changed his bandages on his wounds, despite his fatigue, Jaskier tunes his lute, warms up with some scales, and reaches into his bag for his songbook. When he’s met by nothing but air he frowns and sits the bag upright, pulling it open to look deeper inside. He’s never lost his songbook before, maybe he just left it in the pocket of a doublet. So he checks the pockets of all three of his remaining doublets, but they’re all empty. He checks the pockets on both pairs of his pants, also empty. He checks the pockets of his cloak, checks his lute case, and even checks his coin purse, but no such luck.

“Great,” he grumbles and rubs his face, “There goes all the work for the fucking dragon hunt. Now it really was all for naught.” He’s sure he can get a new song book, and write down as much as he can remember from talking to the dwarves and the others before they made their quick departures, but this is certainly just another shovel of shit. Jaskier winces at his own mental comparison and tries to push that thought away, playing another scale and straightening up. The masses just won’t get anything new tonight, only what he has memorized and fan favorites will be available.

Jaskier spends the next few months this way, flitting from town to town, playing in tavern after tavern, but never staying for long. When Jaskier hears of the Battle of Sodden Hill and the fall of Cintra, he begins asking around about Yennefer. Not because he cares if she lives, mind you, he couldn’t give less of a flying rat's ass if the witch lived or died. But for Geralt’s sake, he asks around if anyone knows if she survived, and is strangely relieved to find out she did. He also wonders if Geralt will claim his Child Surprise now. She’s a wonderful child, if Jaskier does say so himself, since he would visit Cintra every winter while Geralt holed away in Kaer Morhen. Jaskier wanted to keep an eye on the child, and it was a pleasure to see her grow and become her friend.

If you asked someone what they thought of him, they'd say he was running from something, and if you asked Jaskier if that was true he’d say you were right. He is running. He’s running far far away from the White Wolf. The Butcher of Blaviken. The Witcher himself, Geralt of Rivia. He justifies it as giving Geralt what he wanted, if life could give Geralt one blessing it would be to take Jaskier off his hands. So Jaskier did just that. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 1 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	2. Burning Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Saturday! This chapter is just a little bit shorter because I find Geralt much harder to write than Jaskier. And this story is ultimately about Jaskier. Please note, while I have done a lot of research into the Witcher universe, I've only seen the Netflix series. So if anything is incorrect, please let me know. Thank you!

To say Geralt has been a little on edge is an understatement.

First Yennefer dumped him, then he decided to try and find his Child Surprise to protect her, then Queen Calanthe lied to him and locked him in a dungeon, he feared for Yennefer’s life when he heard and saw the carnage at Sodden Hill, and finally Geralt was able to find the child, Princess Cirilla. All in the course of one year. 

She had been shaking like a leaf in his arms when she saw him and ran to embrace him, finally finding her sanctuary after what must have been the most terrifying week of her short human life. Geralt can’t fault her for clinging to him like a dragon to their egg, despite the blood on him from his own injuries, she was just thoroughly traumatized and knew the only person she could trust was him. Her story had spilled out to him through sobs and tears and snot that got all over his tunic, but he didn’t say anything as she spoke and informed him of what had happened to her. She cried to him about Dara and the forest and Mousesack and the Doppler. She cried about her friends and her grandmother and her gift, her curse as she vehemently called it. The chaos trapped inside her small body, only released by her anguish and screams. Geralt had frowned slightly when she informed him of her gift, he had suspected as much when Pavetta had the same display of chaos at her coming of age ceremony, but it still plucked at his hardened heart strings to see such distress in such a young human.

“I know someone who can help you,” he finds himself saying gruffly. And the tiniest sparkle of hope in Cirilla’s eyes as she looked up at him was the final straw that broke the camel’s back. He doesn’t even know if Yennefer is still alive, he truly hopes that she is, but he’ll do anything to help his Child Surprise feel even the tiniest bit better about herself. He doesn’t want Cirilla feeling like a monster, feeling like he does, about herself. She’s a child of magic, a child capable of harnessing chaos, a child of Destiny. And it’s his Destiny to protect and guide her.

“You do?” She says with a hiccup and a sniffle, wiping her running nose on her sleeve. Geralt still can’t quite believe how small she is. She can’t be more than eleven or twelve years of age. He nods and the hope in her blue eyes grows, “Who?”

“A mage,” he pats her back gently, trying to remember how to comfort humans. How he’s seen Jaskier do it whenever they needed to console their contact for a contract. His stomach twists painfully as he thinks of Jaskier and he pushes the feeling away, ignoring it for now. “A sorceress, named Yennefer of Vengerberg. We’ll have to find her though. I’d assume she’s probably hiding now.”

“Because of all the fighting?” Cirilla is perceptive, he’ll give her that. Geralt nods and she sniffles again before wiping her eyes and taking a shaking breath, “Okay, how do we find her?”

“We’ll start by heading back to Aedirn, where she was a court mage,” Geralt stifles a sigh as he thinks of the journey ahead. When did his life become so complicated? He wishes he could just go back to slaying beasts for a moderate amount of coin with his exploits being turned into ballads. His stomach twists again and he nearly growls at the sensation, he doesn’t understand it and wishes it would go away.

"Do you think she’ll be there?” Cirilla asks and Geralt shakes his head.

“No, but it’s a good start to track her down. Come, we’ll have to find Roach,” He steps away from the girl and sticks his fingers in his mouth, letting out a sharp whistle. He only hopes his trusty steed was able to free herself from Cintra before its fall and that the horse will find her way back to him, just as much as he’ll find her. He nearly yanks his hand away when he feels a small hand slip into his, but he looks down at Cirilla with her eyes on the ground and leaves his hand where it is. It’s one small creature comfort, he can provide it. Jaskier had certainly asked for it every now and again after they’d gone up against a truly terrifying monstrosity that left Geralt more dead than alive.

There’s that twist again, this time accompanied by a strange aching feeling in his chest. His lips turn down into a scowl as they walk and he whistles periodically for Roach. Geralt wonders if he’s been poisoned somehow, he wouldn’t put it past Calanthe to have slipped something into his food. However he’s been out of it for some time, and he’s injured currently. Maybe it’s just a side effect of his current injuries. He decides to continue to ignore the feelings and keeps walking, Cirilla a quiet companion at his side.

Finally, to his great relief, he hears the sounds of hoofbeats in the distance as Roach is summoned by his calls. He won’t have to replace the horse and all his things yet again, training a new horse on top of all this was one of the very last things he wanted to deal with. “Can I lift you?” He grunts to Cirilla and she nods as Roach comes to a stop in front of them, so he puts his hands on her waist and lifts her onto the horse. The girl weighs almost nothing to Geralt and he hums, he’ll have to get her fed soon. He can’t imagine she’s been eating well for the past week. Geralt climbs into the saddle as well, settling behind Cirilla and picking up the reins before snapping them and Roach begins walking, sparing them the aches and pains.

“Do you have a fake name?” Geralt asks after several hours of riding. Cirilla had dozed off several times before waking up again in a small panic each time and is currently awake, watching the trees go by as they travel towards Aedirn. “I can’t imagine it’s safe to be calling you Cirilla right now.”

“Fiona,” Cirilla says quietly, “It’s my middle name. And you can call me Ciri in private, it’s okay.”

He hums and nods slightly before falling silent again. They stop to give Roach a break by a stream, allowing the mare to graze and drink as Geralt refills his waterskins and washes off the grime and blood on himself. He looks at Ciri and hums again as he thinks. They’ll have to disguise her somehow. Her long blonde hair and regal clothing is sure to give them away. The next town they come to he’ll get her a new cloak and some brown hair dye. And maybe a hair cut too. 

Cirilla, now with short brown hair and a dull black cloak, is an almost silent travel companion, only speaking to ask the occasional question or answering ones of his. At first, it was welcomed. To have a companion that didn’t speak much so Geralt was left to his own devices and his own thoughts. But it didn’t last longer than even a week. For some reason, this constant silence begins to make Geralt grind his teeth and the ache in his chest grow. He can’t fathom why, he traveled for decades alone in the silence before having any sort of companionship outside of his horse. Why on earth does he feel like there should be any sound more than the whisper of the wind through the trees and the twittering of birds overhead? The sounds of the forest are almost overwhelming to him without anything to drown them out, no mindless one sided conversations being held by a honey sweet voice, no plucking of lute strings-

Geralt shakes his head to rid himself of those thoughts. He had told Jaskier to leave and the foolish bard had actually listened for once in his life. This is what he wanted, peace and quiet, without the sounds of complaining about the heat or the crunching of footsteps beside Roach’s hooves or the thumping of a lute case against a thigh as Jaskier ran to catch up to Geralt once again. Geralt wanted to be rid of the bard, he was so sure of it. But now that Jaskier’s gone, why is it things feel too… quiet?

_ “That’s not fair…” _

Jaskier’s voice had been so small after Geralt raged at him. Geralt had never heard the bard be anything less than rambunctious, or at the very least moderately loud to his sensitive ears. He didn’t think the bard knew the meaning of quiet, of demure, of subdued. But Geralt had been able to render his voice smaller than a mouse’s in one sentence. His stomach twists again and he feels like he might be getting nauseated. It can’t be from his injuries though, it’s been long enough that those are nearly fully healed now and he hasn’t been injured since. Geralt presses his lips into a thin line and looks up at the sky, noting how low the sun has gotten and decides to find a spot for them to camp.

“We’re stopping for the night,” Geralt grunts as he guides Roach off of the path and into the woods until they find a clearing a few hundred yards away. Ciri looks up at him and nods with a small yawn. The child doesn’t sleep well, plagued by nightmares every time she tries to rest. Geralt isn’t sure how to help her either, Jaskier was always the one who would help him when he would have his own terrors. He tried singing once, like Jaskier would, but it came out so horrendously bad to even his own ears that he never tried again. How the bard was ever able to make music sound as soft as silk and as sweet as the smoothest nectar was beyond Geralt. He suspected Jaskier had some sort of tie to chaos, as his medallion seemed to always hum a small amount when Jaskier drew near, but the bard never seemed aware of it so Geralt dismissed it.

“Collect some firewood, I’ll catch us something to eat,” Geralt instructs and Ciri nods again, sliding out of the saddle and clearing a spot to make a fire before starting to collect branches and twigs. Geralt gets what’s needed for snares and brings a sword before going off into the woods a small ways, catching two rabbits and returning a half an hour later to a crackling fire. Ciri was a fast learner, having picked up how to start a fire after watching Geralt do it twice.

Another hour later and the two are eating in content silence around the popping fire, the light casting shadows on the trees and the leaves overhead rustling from the rising heat. Roach huffs and kneels down to rest, closing her eyes, and soon Ciri’s eyes are also drifting shut. Geralt watches her nearly drop the last bit of rabbit and he stands up, going over to the bags and pulling out the bedroll he had purchased for the girl. Something falls out of the bag with the roll so he picks it up and tucks it in his pocket for now before setting up the makeshift bed for Ciri by the fire so the child will stay warm.

“Thank you,” Ciri whispers and crawls into the bedroll, curling up and closing her eyes. She falls asleep almost instantly, like she does most nights. And Geralt settles down again to keep watch for a while until her nightmares wake her up. Then he’ll be able to sleep after she returns to sleep. 

Whatever it was that fell out of the pack gently digs into his leg as he sits down again so he pulls it from his pocket, looking down in shock at the worn book in his hands. The binding is worn and falling apart, held together by glue and a prayer, and a threadbare quill is tucked into the center of the book. Pages are sticking out at odd angles, as though they’d been ripped out and then shoved back in and the leather of the cover is dyed a faded and stained black, a nearly rubbed away ornate silver J stamped into the face of the book. Jaskier’s songbook.

The ache in his chest returns with a ferocity rivaling that of the toughest kikimora and his stomach twists painfully, nauseating him so much he thinks he might throw up. Jaskier would never leave behind such a treasured belonging, it must have fallen out of the pocket of one of his doublets when he was taking his things out of Roach’s packs. He can’t imagine Jaskier willingly leaving it behind with Geralt, he wouldn’t be so cruel.

Geralt’s eyes burn as he looks at the book in his hands and he both wants to open it and flip through the pages and leave it closed, to respect Jaskier’s privacy. Jaskier never allowed Geralt to read his songbook. “Too many unfinished works, it’s just disrespectful to the craft to allow any eyes to see them!” he’d always say as he snapped the book shut and tucked it back in his pocket with a twinkle in his cornflower blue eyes. Such a treasured possession, left with Geralt unwittingly when Jaskier left. That just won’t do.

Geralt takes a shaking breath and runs his fingers over the book, his callused hands caressing the time softened leather. He’ll have to return this to Jaskier, he can’t keep it forever. Geralt glances up at Ciri before bringing the book to his nose, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes. Despite its year in Roach’s saddle bag, the leather still clings to the scent of wood oil and lavender, the two smells that Jaskier featured most prominently. Geralt could write a ballad of his own of the many scents that make up his bard, but he admits it probably wouldn’t be a very good one, so he tucks the book back in his pocket and takes another deep breath. They’re looking for Yennefer, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask about Jaskier too, he supposes. It’s extremely important to get his very valuable songbook returned to him, and if Geralt gets the chance to see him again… Well the fact that the thought of seeing his bard again makes his chest ache just a little less isn’t lost on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading chapter 2 of Spring Crocuses. Kudos and comments are appreciated! 
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	3. Overwhelming Silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy!

Jaskier heaves a heavy sigh as he collects firewood for his camp, the road between Caravista and Metinna being a long and arduous one. It’s not a difficult path to traverse by any means, but Jaskier still prefers the finer things, and sleeping on the ground for the fourth night in a row is getting tedious. His back aches and his feet are tired and his muscles sore from the uphill trek. He wants nothing more than to sing as loudly as he can to fill the silence of the forest, but a gruff voice in his head reminds him how dangerous that is. With a frown, Jaskier creates a fire and very deliberately does  _ not _ think about the Witcher whose voice his internal survival instincts sometimes sound like.

It’s been a year and six months since he last saw Geralt, and Jaskier should be over the rejection by now. He presses his lips together in a thin line and shakes his head vigorously to clear his thoughts of his former companion. While he no longer cries over the spilt milk that is his broken friendship, he is currently dealing with the pain by just avoiding thinking about it as much as possible. And if Geralt were to step out of the trees right now and say hello? Well, Jaskier’s not sure what he would do but he’s sure it would involve his fists, a lot of yelling and swearing, and perhaps a hefty rock.

Once the fire is burning bright Jaskier gets up to go check the traps he set, hopeful for a rabbit tonight. The past few nights he’s had to settle for soups that were mostly water, some salt, and a smidgeon of leftover jerky that he found in his pack. He truly is terrible with his money, he thinks to himself as he smooths a hand over his new emerald green doublet. He saw the piece in the marketplace of Caravista and just couldn’t resist, drawn to the shimmering fabric like a magpie to shining trophies. The elegant piping, the elaborate golden stitchwork along the cuffs and the sleeves. He really should save it for performances but he absolutely had to wear it, at least once, in private. Just for himself. 

Geralt never understood why Jaskier would spend time making himself look beautiful when it was just going to be himself and Geralt seeing his appearance, even when Jaskier tried to explain that he just enjoys wearing beautiful things. He doesn’t think he’s all that narcissistic either, as much as he jests and jokes about being so, he just truly loves being beautiful. For Geralt to be beautiful, all he had to do was be covered in guts as he swung a sword, performing for no one as Jaskier was usually hidden from sight as he watched the Witcher fight. For Jaskier to be beautiful, he wears silks and oils and does his hair and on the rare occasion will even powder his nose and apply paint to his lips to make them more pink. Sometimes Geralt would try to argue that physical beauty is different from internal beauty, that someone could wear all the finest silks and the most expensive perfumes and he wouldn’t be beautiful on the inside, and Jaskier always agreed. They are two completely different forms of beauty. And before Geralt could ask any other questions, Jaskier would change the subject, prattling on about something he saw or a thought he had to make the Witcher tune him out again. 

When someone is beautiful, inside and out, they hold true beauty. It’s not something that’s particularly common these days, Jaskier laments as he walks back to his camp with a single small rabbit. True beauty can only be found one way. When you’re so beautiful inside, that you’re beautiful outside to everyone who sees you. Jaskier believes, even now when he’s been scorned and hurt and tossed aside like the scraps of the rabbit he’s skinning, that Geralt holds true beauty. But that he himself does not. 

It’s part of why he makes himself so physically beautiful, to hide the fact that he’s so bitter and twisted and angry inside. Jaskier tried to never let Geralt know how competitive and vindictive he could be, but he slipped with his wish to the Djinn by asking the creature to strike down Valdo Marx with apoplexy and death. Geralt never asked why Jaskier wanted the other troubadour dead, but Jaskier caught him speaking to another bard once and could have  _ sworn _ he heard Marx’s name in the conversation. In an attempt to act innocent though Jaskier didn’t bring it up, and it still simmers deep in his gut. The shame that comes with the loathing that he holds for Valdo Marx and the idea that Geralt knows how petty the whole rivalry is. All Marx did was say that Jaskier would never be a true artisan and that his work was subpar. In more flowery words than that of course, but even just thinking about it is enough to make Jaskier’s blood boil.

Jaskier’s hand slips as he skins the rabbit and the sharp knife sinks into the flesh of his palm. “Fuck!” He swears loudly and removes the offending tool, setting it aside and grabbing his water skin to rinse the cut. Thankfully it’s relatively small so he doesn’t need to stitch his hand, just bandaging it and returning to the work he was doing. His hand will heal quickly, in a few days at most if he doesn’t take good care of it. By tomorrow evening if he does. Despite the glamour affecting his senses, it does nothing against his blood, which heals him faster than a human would. If Geralt ever smelt that Jaskier’s blood wasn’t fully human, he never said anything and so Jaskier never did either. As far as he knows, Geralt just thinks he’s a bard who can heal extraordinarily fast. Some humans do heal quickly without having other blood in them, it’s not that unusual anymore.

Although elves are becoming sparse. Jaskier can’t remember the last elf he’s seen aside from his very first adventure with Geralt. Oh he knows Yennefer has elven blood, how else would she have purple eyes? But she’s not an  _ elf _ . She’s not like Jaskier. He worries his lip between his teeth as he cooks the rabbit over the fire, his fingers lightly strumming the strings of the lute as it lays on the ground in the open case. It’s concerning how few elves he sees anymore, even half elves are declining in population. Yennefer’s only a quarter elf, one of her grandparents must have been elven, and she’s the only quarter elf Jaskier’s seen in years. It could be that there are lots of other elves, and they’re just wearing glamours with the same strength as his own. He hopes as much because he wouldn’t be able to bear it if Filavandrel was right.

_ Geralt had just left the cave to start heading back towards Posada, leaving Jaskier with the elves after they’d been cut free of their bindings. Jaskier could tell he was frustrated by how the elves were living, hidden in fear and dying of sickness but also unwilling to change their perception of humans and magic. Filavandrel had asked Jaskier to stay for a moment as Toruviel retrieved something. _

_ "You aren’t a human, are you?” Filavandrel had asked in Elder after a few moments of awkward silence. Jaskier startled slightly and his eyes snapped to the elven king’s. _

_ After deliberating for a few moments, Jaskier had shaken his head and replied in their native tongue, “No, I too am Evellien.” _

_ “Why do you hide it? Are you not proud to be an elf?” Filavandrel inquired, tilting his tired head as curiosity burned in his eyes. His intense gaze kept Jaskier glued to the spot. “Every day our numbers dwindle, are you ashamed to be amongst our kind?” _

_ Jaskier shook his head again, his fingers playing with the thin chain hung around his neck, “It’s not that, my lord. After the second invasion… and the Great Cleansing… it wasn’t- isn’t, safe to be an elf amongst man. I am a bard by trade, I was a bard long before the Cleansing and I will continue to be a bard long after today. My profession requires me to be amongst the people, and as unfortunate as it is these days… who would listen to an evellien bard?” Jaskier smiled sadly and clasped his hands behind his back. _

_ Filavandrel frowned softly as he thought about Jaskier’s words, “You are the elf bard Julian, are you not?” Jaskier bit his lip and nodded gently. It had been many many years since anyone had called him that. _

_ “Jaskier now, my lord.” _

_ “Well, Jaskier,” Filavandrel said softly and stood, approaching the bard and gently placing a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, “It is brave of you to walk amongst the same beings who killed so many of our own.” _

_ Jaskier smiled slightly before frowning and speaking in a pained voice, “I hope you understand… I will have to change what happened here in the ballad I perform. My goal is to change the perception of Witcher’s currently, the human's ideas of elves are still too raw to be affected. But Witchers… but I’ll be disrespecting you if I do this.” _

_ Filavandrel looked at Jaskier thoughtfully before letting out a soft sigh, “I understand. Do not be too harsh on us. I am hopeful that, if you are able to change the human’s perception of Witchers then you may someday be able to redeem elves in the eyes of the humans. And we can live and work side by side again. If you are successful, can you promise me that, Jaskier? That you’ll try?” _

_ Jaskier nodded immediately and Filavandrel looked relieved and Jaskier spoke with determination in his voice, “Absolutely. I would be honored.” _

_ “Thank you, Jaskier,” Filavandrel patted Jaskier’s shoulder, more of a comforting gesture for himself than for Jaskier, “With how few of us there are left, I fear that in the near future there will be no elves left. Every day we continue to be struck down and slaughtered by the humans when discovered, we must hide in caves such as this, become thieves to feed ourselves. How can we possibly grow our ranks when we can barely keep ourselves alive?” _

_ “I…” Jaskier had hesitated, unsure of what to say. He’s not a leader, he’s not somebody who can make sense of the Cleansing. “I don’t know, my lord,” he murmured quietly, “but I promise you, I’ll write a song of our heritage. A ballad more beautiful than any crafted in all of time since conjunction. And we will be welcome again amongst humans. I promise you that.” _

Jaskier looks down at the lute that his fingers lightly dance across the strings of, his eyes taking in the mother of pearl that accents the bridge, the sinew of the strings, the smooth wood that’s tarnished with light scratches here and there from its time on the road. The masterfully crafted bardic tool was gifted to him by Filavandrel shortly after their talk and he hurried on his way to catch up to Geralt. Who then didn’t like how Jaskier explained that respect rarely made history when he tweaked the events that occurred to write “Toss a Coin”. It became a huge success, and since then Jaskier’s been trying to write a song just as remarkable to sing the praises of his evellien people. But so far he’s been unsuccessful. And now with his lost songbook… He’s gotten a new one, but had to start all over. All of his years of hard work on his heritage song is gone. He only hopes that no one finds it, and the book is lost to the elements so that no one can discover who it might belong to either. Anyone with two thoughts to rub together can figure out that the author of the songbook is an elf just by the amount of knowledge in the notes he’s written for his heritage song. So he supposes if the book gets found, he hopes it’s found by someone incredibly dense and terrible at drawing conclusions.

Jaskier’s fingers run across an imperfection in the smooth wood of his lute and he smiles slightly. Every mark that marrs the glossy surface of the instrument has a story. It’s not his fault though if he can’t remember them all, that’s what he likes to tell people if they ask why there’s so many dents and dings on his beautiful possession. While people know he was running with a Witcher, they don’t want to think about difficult life on the road when being regaled with the grandiose battles of the fearsome Geralt of Rivia against monstrous beasts that lurk in the dark.

He plucks a few chords before pausing to eat the now fully cooked rabbit, seasoning it with salt and just a little bit of pepper. He remembers when he convinced Geralt to allow him to put a pinch of pepper on Geralt’s meat, venison that night, how the Witcher’s eyes had widened minutely and his eating had become more ravenous. How they always carried pepper with them after that to make the tough food they cooked in the woods more palatable. It was a small victory, but one that Jaskier carries close to his chest with pride anyway.

He glances up and across the fire, as though expecting someone to be there, and shakes his head with another sigh. He forgot how lonely it is, to travel by oneself. He had been a traveling bard for many years before he met up with Geralt, his whole adult life didn’t revolve around the Witcher, but the companionship was kind to his heart and eased his mind. It was nice to have someone who he trusted nearby, especially someone with heightened senses who could protect them both if the need arose while his own senses are dulled. 

At first, being alone again was terrifying. Every sound in the forest was someone or something coming to kill him. But then as he became more accustomed to the natural movement of the planet: the shaking of brush as small animals scurried through it, the chirping of crickets in the night, even the faint sounds of water through the trees, he became more comfortable. If he lets himself sit for too long though, he begins to be able to hear his heartbeat in his ears, the creak of his bones in his body, even the whisper of his hair against his skin. It becomes too much, and so he’ll sing.

Jaskier lifts his lute out of its case with the same reverence he does every time, sliding his hands over the instrument as though it’s the very first time he’s ever held such a beautiful thing, before slotting it slightly under his arm and tuning it appropriately. It’s already mostly in tune, but he can hear some of the strings have already slackened, making the notes go flat. Jaskier hums a few notes before his fingers strum softly across the strings, playing a handful of chords that lead into a melodious plucking of music. The song dances through the quiet night, the gentle playing a loud sound in the sleeping forest and Jaskier closes his eyes to allow himself to listen to the song. Hear how the strings vibrate, making the sound echo in the hollow wood of the lute before bouncing out in clear notes that carry the melody of the unfinished ballad. Or has it even begun? He plays with no purpose, no destination. The song is not one that has ever been made before and will be one that is lost to the woods, never to be played again. A melody just to drown out the overwhelming silence.

If Jaskier were just the slightest bit more attentive, he would have noticed that the most recent pop of the fire was not, in fact, the pop of an air bubble in the wood of his campfire. But rather the snapping of a branch under the weight of a foot. But Jaskier isn’t slightly more attentive than he is right now as he focuses on allowing the music to take him away from his loneliness, and as such he doesn’t notice the pommel of a sword coming down on his head either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading chapter 3 of Spring Crocuses. Kudos and comments are appreciated!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	4. Lavender and Wood Oil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's everyone handling quarantine? I'm going insane. Enjoy another chapter!

“Lower your weight.”

“It is low.”

“Make it lower.”

“My knees don’t bend further than this, Geralt!”

“So widen your stance more and lower your weight. And be quiet, you’re going to scare it away.”

Ciri huffs slightly and spreads her feet apart to lower her weight more as she and Geralt creep through the underbrush of the thin forest, hidden from the stunning buck only by their light footsteps and the dense shrubs that fill the space between the trees. Geralt’s been teaching her how to hunt and provide for herself, in case they get separated, he explained, but Ciri thinks it’s so he can have some help around the camp as well. Which she’s done beautifully, if she says so herself. 

Cirilla is a fast learner, always has been, and roughing it in the woods is no exception. It only took her a week to learn how to build a fire, finding the best branches and scrap wood to last the longest with the least amount of fuel. She required minimal instruction for learning to fish, and then learning to prepare said fish for cooking. Cooking is something she’s starting to take pride in, as she’s gotten very good very fast over the past six months that she and Geralt have been looking for the mage, Yennefer. He’s taught her how to wield a dagger, and bought her one of her own that she keeps tucked in her belt now, a source of pride that she displays as much as possible. With all the things she’s learned, why is it that she can’t get the hang of using a bow and arrow?

Geralt had been teaching her how to hunt with various weapons for several months now, and she’s had no problems with snares, daggers, and even his swords in a pinch. Although she avoids using them as they’re much too heavy for her thin arms. But a bow and arrow she just can’t quite get. To use them, you have to stalk your prey around to be in their line of sight while still remaining invisible, something Ciri is also struggling with. She prefers to attack from behind, out of sight, but every time she attempts to sneak around to attack from the front the deer will spot her and bound away. Today Geralt is trying to see if it’s because she’s being too loud.

“Ciri, watch ou-” Geralt starts to hiss but is too late as she steps on a stick, the wood snapping beneath her foot and the buck’s head raising in alarm as it looks around. It spots Ciri in the brush and immediately leaps forward, beginning to run away, so she nocks an arrow and draws back on the string, firing wildly at the beast and missing by a huge margin. She scowls as the arrow soars through the trees and disappears into the brush and Geralt shakes his head, standing up again.

“When you’ve been found out, it’s best to let it get some distance. Loosing the arrow like that has now scared the deer and lost you an arrow,” Geralt says with a frown and Ciri’s scowl deepens as she shoulders the small bow. 

“I’m never going to get it, Geralt! Why can’t I just stick to my dagger and snares?” She stomps her foot petulantly, crossing her arms over her chest, “I don’t see _you_ using a bow to catch us our dinner.” And it’s true, she’s never seen him so much as touch a bow and arrow other than when he gave her the set she’s using now. Who is he to tell her how to use the tools when he hasn’t even proven to her that he can?

Geralt rolls his eyes slightly, “It’s good to be versed in all manners of hunting. I prefer swords and snares, but I do know how to use a bow when necessary.” He doesn’t mention that he hasn’t carried one in decades, and it’s probable that his skill would be similar to hers if he actually tried to use a bow again. His mind wanders to the time someone challenged Jaskier to a target competition. 

_"Are you insane?” Geralt had snarled as they walked through the city of Tretogor to the weaponsmith, “Why did you accept his challenge? Do you even know how to use a bow and arrow?” He had highly doubted the bard was knowledgeable in any forms of weaponry except the bare minimum of names and how to not stab himself with a dagger._

_Jaskier had looked unworried though and smiled brightly at Geralt with a twinkle in his blue eyes, “Worry not, my dear Witcher. I used to do archery back in Kerack.” Ah, right. Geralt forgot that Jaskier is a noble. It was something that frequently confused him, why a noble would want to travel with a Witcher instead of staying in luxury and similar company._

_“Are you any good at it still?” Geralt had asked, still doubtful of Jaskier’s alleged skill, “I’ve never seen you carry a bow, or practice, and you said yourself once that you haven’t kept with your studies in almost a decade.”_

_Jaskier had pouted at him then, turning his kicked puppy expression on the Witcher which always made something stir in Geralt’s chest, “I’m good enough. I think I’ll do wonderfully. Besides, the man’s a drunk, I doubt he can shoot any straighter than a goose with a broken wing can fly.”_

_Geralt had been mildly dismayed when Jaskier’s assessment turned out to be incorrect. The challenger was, in fact, a knight of the local monarch and an excellent archer, hitting the red dyed straw just outside of the bullseye on four out of the five targets, and getting one bullseye. He heaved a sigh as he watched Jaskier walk up to the line drawn with chalk on the grass, the borrowed bow that Jaskier had pointed to and called ‘the pretty one’ at the weaponsmith shop hung loosely at his side. Geralt started mentally preparing to be chased out of the city, grateful that Jaskier had waited until his contract was completed before being a complete fool. Jaskier had glanced at the surprisingly large audience and when his light blue eyes met Witcher gold the bard flashed an unnervingly confident smile to his friend before turning back to the targets and raising the bow, nocking an arrow and drawing back on the string. Geralt had to stop himself from letting out a low whistle as he appreciated Jaskier’s perfect form. Jaskier took a deep breath and held it for a moment before letting it out as he released the string. The arrow flew straight and sank deep into the dead center of the first target._

_“Bullseye!” the announcer shouted and the crowd gasped as Jaskier moved to the next target, his face impassive except for a small furrow between his brows and a tightness in his cheeks that only Geralt could recognize as he saw the concentrated expression nightly when Jaskier would scribble in his songbook. Jaskier took another deep breath and released it in time with the arrow which sunk into the dead center of the second, farther target. The knight that challenged Jaskier was getting antsy, shifting his weight back and forth and his fingers were twitching for his bow as he watched Jaskier get a third bullseye. Geralt thought about how the only way for the knight to win would be if Jaskier were disqualified for missing a target entirely._

_The knight seemed to come to the same conclusion and as Jaskier aimed for the last and furthest target, the knight had raised his bow and taken aim at the bard. He didn’t need to hit the bard, just distract him enough to miss. Geralt spotted the knight just as the knight loosed the arrow, Jaskier beginning to let go of his deep breath._

_“Jaskier!” Geralt yelled in warning and the bard didn’t even look over, just immediately dropping into a roll as he let go of the bowstring, his arrow flying wildly high. There’s no way Jaskier’s arrow would come anywhere near the target. With a scowl and a small growl that only Geralt’s sensitive hearing would pick up, Jaskier quickly nocked a second arrow and took aim at the projectile, releasing the bowstring with less showmanship than he had previously been using and the string snapped against his cheek, cutting into the pale skin. Geralt and the audience watched in awe as the second arrow Jaskier fired hit the first, angling it back downward and the force of gravity pulled the original arrow, the one that truly mattered, into the dead center of the target._

_“Five bullseyes! A new record for Tretogor, set by Jaskier the bard!” the announcer shouted and the crowd had gone wild. Geralt was shocked, but also impressed by his travel companion. The bard had stood and bowed with a flourish and a beaming grin as a thin trickle of blood ran down his cheek and the knight had thrown his bow to the ground in anger before stomping off._

_Geralt had asked later after they set up camp on the road why Jaskier didn’t carry a bow for protection, as the bard was obviously very skilled in the weapon, and Jaskier had smiled with an emotion Geralt didn’t recognize in his eyes as he looked at the Witcher and spoke with a teasing edge to his voice, “Why would I carry a silly thing such as that when I’ve got the greatest protection there is?”_

_“Which is?” Geralt had prompted. He disagreed with Jaskier relying on him to be his sole source of protection, it was foolish of the bard to do so. But Geralt wouldn’t deny he secretly enjoyed the small confidence boost he’d get when he heard Jaskier say how much he trusts Geralt. Not many people trust a Witcher implicitly to protect them. No one does really, even other Witchers._

_“Why, Roach of course,” Jaskier gave him a lopsided grin and Geralt had hummed with a scowl, throwing a piece of bark across the fire at the bard who dodged it with a laugh, “Did you think I meant you? Geralt, you silly man, everyone knows the horse is much scarier!” It annoyed him but also amused him how easily Jaskier teased him, how comfortable the man felt with Geralt to do things as simple as ribbing that many others would consider dangerous. Geralt’s scowl had softened as he watched the bard laugh, his eyes roaming over Jaskier’s relaxed pose, following the lines of his collarbone exposed by the unlaced chemise in the warm night, the bard's sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal his toned arms that lead to thin hands and long lithe fingers that dance across the strings of a lute as easily as they pull on the string of a bow. Geralt wondered what else the bards fingers could do, given the opportunity-_

“Geralt!” Ciri’s voice gets his attention and he blinks, looking down at the princess. If Geralt could blush he knew his face would be as red as the mouth of a bruxa. He raises an eyebrow at Ciri who huffs in frustration and stalks past him back towards camp. “You weren’t even listening to me were you?”

“What did you tell me?” Geralt asks as he follows her, putting his hands in his pockets. He thumbs the corner of the songbook in his pocket, the paper softened from his frequent touch. It calmed him, oddly enough, to feel the book in his pocket. Like his bard wasn’t truly gone forever. 

“That I heard one of my traps go off, so we have dinner for tonight after all,” she turns her nose up at Geralt haughtily and he has to cover a chuckle with a soft cough, which doesn’t fool Ciri at all. She glares at him and stomps loudly away as he stops to tend to the fire, listening to her retrieve whatever triggered her trap. She returns with two rabbits and they each prepare one, setting the hides aside to sell in town for a few coin. Ciri quickly gets over her irritation with the Witcher and when she’s tucked into her bedroll she asks him to tell her a story.

“I’ve told you before, I’m not a storyteller,” he shakes his head, crossing his legs as he sits on his own bedroll beside her. Jaskier was always better at spinning tales from nothing, it had been something Geralt enjoyed doing, giving the bard a subject and listening to whatever outlandish story Jaskier could come up with to accompany it.

Ciri looks up at him and sighs, turning her eyes to the tree canopy above them, the stars just barely visible through the branches, “in Cintra, every year for my birthday, my grandmother had the best storyteller come to us. He’d stay for an entire week, singing and dancing and telling me stories every night before I went to bed and on the last night, on my birthday, he’d tell me the story about the white haired Witcher who would come to my rescue if I was ever in trouble.” She yawns softly and burrows down deeper in her bedroll, “I asked him once if the story was true and he said that he hoped so. I’m glad he was right.”

Geralt looks down at her to see her eyes are closed as her breathing evens out. The story of the Child Surprise wasn’t a hidden one, even though Calanthe had done her best to keep it a secret, as nobility are known for running their mouths. He is surprised that there was someone out there willing to hope that Geralt, that a Witcher, would protect the princess though. 

Geralt feels that ache rising up in his chest as he does every night and he pulls the songbook out of his pocket, turning it over and over in his hands, feeling the binding and the soft leather under his fingers. He hasn’t heard a word about the bard in a few weeks, whereas before he had a general idea of where Jaskier was and who he may have been involved with based on the scandalized spouses left behind. Now Geralt has no idea if his bard even lives. Touching the book isn't helping as much as it normally does though, and the ache continues to grow. He looks down at the book, noticing that the embossing of the silver J is completely gone now, rubbed away from his touch. Before he could pretend that holding the book meant that Jaskier had left it with him for safekeeping, that the bard would come back for it. But it’s been almost two years; Jaskier’s surely got a new songbook now. 

Geralt’s fingers are opening the book before his mind catches up to tell him not to, the pages falling open easily in his palms, and he feels his eyes start to burn as he sees the familiar chicken scratch scrawl of his bard’s handwriting on the worn paper. The ink is perfectly preserved as Geralt thumbs through the book, not even attempting to read the dozens of poems and songs that Jaskier penned. The pages that hang loose are crumpled, like they’d been thrown away before carefully retrieved and flattened again, no idea a bad idea. Jaskier always said he never had any bad ideas, just not good ideas for right now. Geralt had wondered what that meant but he now sees before him exactly the meaning. Even the lines Jaskier struck through so thoroughly they couldn’t be read were re-written directly below in careful print so they wouldn’t be forgotten. 

Geralt starts to skim some of the poems and is overwhelmed by just how many of them are about him. He always knew Jaskier said he was following Geralt to ‘chronicle his victories against the evil that lurks in the dark’, but there are so many poems. They can’t all be songs, can they? Some of them he recognizes, bits of the poetry ending up in the stanzas of the ballads Jaskier wrote to immortalize their journey, but many, many others sound almost like someone other than Jaskier wrote them. Not a brash word or crude innuendo among them, the tenderness in some of the poems too much for his bard to have written about Geralt. As he flips through the book, the binding keeps falling open to one specific page that Jaskier must have frequented. Ink nearly blackens the pages from how many notes and words and attempts are on these two pieces of paper, things scribbled out and written over and notated. But through it all, Geralt is able to glean the final product of the poem:

_Take my heart; I’ll give it with ease._  
_Take my hand and I’ll walk this journey with you._  
_Take my scars and I’ll heal yours all up._  
_Take my fears and I’ll make yours vanish when things get tough._  
_Take my smile and I’ll make yours appear._  
_Take my arms and I’ll hold you oh so tight._  
_Take my feelings and make them real._  
_At the end, show me how to feel._

Who could Jaskier have written this about? Geralt frowns softly as he feels his stomach drop and his chest ache. The poem has so much longing in it, was Geralt keeping Jaskier from a lover? They traveled on and off together for over two decades, and the last seven years were almost 100% together except for the winter and the odd week here and there. That’s a long time to be separated from your significant other. If Jaskier had only told Geralt… he would have understood if his bard stopped traveling with him to be with another. 

“What are you reading?” Ciri’s quiet voice breaks his trance and he closes the book quickly, looking down at the princess with a frown.

“Nothing, go back to sleep,” Geralt says gruffly, tucking the book back in his pocket. Ciri doesn’t listen though and climbs out of her bedroll, kneeling beside the Witcher and gently touching his cheek.

“You’re crying,” she whispers before wrapping her arms around him in an embrace, “it’s okay to be sad sometimes, Geralt.”

“Hmm,” he grunts in response but doesn’t push her away, wrapping his own arms around her. The smell of her, earth and the sting of chaos, fills his nose. He can’t help but wish that the person hugging him were someone else and that he was smelling lavender and wood oil instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier's poem is derived from Make Me Feel by Mariah Chandan.
> 
> Thank you for reading chapter 4 of Spring Crocuses! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	5. Silver and Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter ended up being much longer than I thought it would be... oops!
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> EDIT: Sorry if anyone got a few notifications for chapter uploads, there was some issues with my internet connection that resulted in this chapter being uploaded twice. It's been rectified, only this one chapter for today.

It’s dark when Jaskier awakens to a pounding in his skull.

No, wait, that’s not right. Well the pounding skull part is, what did he get hit with? His head hurts something fierce, the pain radiating out from a dull ache on the back of his head. He can feel that his neck is wet and warm, so whatever hit him also drew blood. That’s just great. He’s managed to avoid getting into too much trouble for months now and just when he’s a day out from Metinna is when something happens, just his luck.

He opens his eyes a slit and bites back a groan as the light from his campfire makes the pain in his head spike. He doesn’t want to alert whomever injured him to his consciousness. He hasn’t been out for long though, if the fire is still burning, and he moves his shoulder just a smidge to ease some discomfort only to find that he’s been bound. As his wits slowly return to him, he’s able to taste copper on his tongue and his jaw aches from the damp and oily rag shoved in his mouth. His own lute cleaning cloth, a tool of his trade, turned on him in his time of weakness. He’s sure there’s a bit of poetry in there somewhere but he can’t be bothered to figure out where just yet.

He stays still with his cheek pressed to the dry earth and just listens to try and figure out if he’s alone, and is dismayed to realize he is not. Several voices are around the fire with him, speaking relatively quietly though so they must be wary of him. Unless… perhaps there’s something in the forest with them. Jaskier doesn’t want to linger on that thought too much as he wouldn’t stand much of a chance against any sort of beasty while tied like a hog awaiting slaughter. His back is arched uncomfortably as his hands are tied behind him with his ankles drawn up to his wrists, course rope cutting into his skin and it feels like it’s been wrapped around his upper arms and thighs as well. Whoever these people are, they’ve taken quite the precautions against him. He feels the thin chain of his pendant slither across his skin as his shifted weight gives the necklace some slack and he remembers that the trinket is enchanted so that humans won’t notice it. He’s glad he paid extra for that now or he’d be in even more trouble.

“What are we to do with him?” a feminine voice above his head asks in a hushed tone. Jaskier feels what knots he can with his fingers, plucking at them imperceptibly to try and remove the bindings. “He’s not just a bard like we thought.”

“The Witcher hasn’t been seen with his bard in well over a year,” a man replies from across the fire, “They’ve split ways I’d assume. Witcher probably got tired of looking out for such a weakling.”

“If he’s so weak, then how’s he survived on his own for well over a year, Tomas?” the woman shoots back. Jaskier’s able to get one knot undone and feels the ropes slacken around his ankles. He makes sure to hold his position though so that there’s no suspicion on him. He needs to bide his time and wait for the right moment.

“Vela’s right,” another woman with a deeper voice speaks from Jaskier’s other side, “I don’t have a good feeling about this. Something about him seems off. Perhaps we should just take what we can and leave him.”

The hairs on the back of Jaskier’s neck raise as he suddenly gets the sensation of being watched, and stills his efforts, forcing his breathing to remain slow and willing his heart to stop racing in his chest. It doesn’t listen of course, and he hears someone get to their feet and start to approach him. Remain still, play dead, let them think he’s still unconscious. 

“Well, let’s find out then,” a second male voice says, “The bard has a voice, we can find out if the Witcher is coming to save him. If not, then I say we gut him and steal his pretty chords. Bard voices are going for a fortune these days.”

Oh no. Jaskier’s stomach flips as his heart plummets, these aren’t just bandits, they’re black market traders. Dealers in the macabre and morbid. Dabblers in the dark arts. Vendors to necromancers and the corruption that crawls through the underbelly of the political world. Enablers of… well, you get the picture. Jaskier has no intention of becoming an organ donor, thank you very much, and is about to say as much when a steel toed boot comes into contact with his exposed and fleshy stomach. His eyes fly open as his head pain spikes and the air in his lungs whooshes out of his nose so hard it stings and makes his eyes water. He’s certain he would have bit his tongue if the gag weren’t in place and he looks up at the man looming over him with wide eyes.

The black market trader leers at him, exposing yellowed rotting teeth in a mouth that seems much too small for the man’s large face as he licks his thin and cracked lips. He has small watery eyes that remind Jaskier of those of the nasty wild swine that roam the land in Nilfgaard and sallow skin that would probably be brightened up by just a few more vitamins and a little less meat in the man’s diet. The man leans down and grabs the front of Jaskier’s doublet, lifting the bard with ease and raising him off the ground, the rope that had been around Jaskier’s ankles falling away. Before the man can even say a word, Jaskier decides to be foolhardy and draws his knees up to plant his feet squarely on the man’s chest and push off with all his might. 

The trader might be strong but even he can’t hold onto the bard with the full force of Jaskier’s strength behind the shove. The man trips backwards and Jaskier is thrown away from him, hitting a tree and stars burst before his eyes. Get it together, Jaskier! He forces himself back to his feet and shakes his head to try and clear his daze before the traders can react, the one that had grabbed him had fallen into the fire and is howling loudly from burns as one of the women tries to put any flames that caught on his clothes out. The other man, Tomas?, roars and charges towards Jaskier like a bull. 

Geralt’s done the same move dozens of times before when giving Jaskier minor self defense lessons so Jaskier waits until the last second to duck out of Tomas’s way, spinning to safety as the man hits the tree head on. Jaskier mentally cheers but his celebration doesn’t last long as something hits him in the back, the discordant twanging of strings snapping accompanying the thwack and cracking of wood as the final trader knocks him to the ground with his own lute, destroying his precious instrument in the process. Jaskier feels his nose crunch as he hits the ground face first and warmth flows down his chin as he tries to get up again, his hands still uselessly tied behind him and his legs bound to the point where he can only take tiny steps and hops. He’s hit again with the lute, the instrument snapping the rest of the way as he’s sent fully to the ground and the woman tosses the lute aside with a scowl.

“You’re more trouble than we thought you’d be, bard,” she snarls and grabs the ropes binding his wrists to lift him. It pulls his arms painfully against the rope around his shoulders and his elbows scream as his weight is forced against the direction the joints bend. Jaskier screams through the gag and she throws him to the ground again, his chin cracking against a rock and splitting the skin there and she kicks him in the ribs, the bones snapping under the force. The man who was on fire seems to have recovered and all four of the black market traders converge on him, Tomas grabbing him by the collar of his ruined doublet and lifting him up again as the other man sinks a fist into Jaskier’s already bruised stomach while one of the women takes a serrated dagger to his leg, tearing open his flesh in a jagged wound.

Jaskier quickly works to get the gag out of his mouth before he loses consciousness, darkness already starting to appear at the edges of his blurring vision. His fingers fight to reach the knot around his wrists but they just aren’t quite long enough and another punch is landed, this time to his already broken ribs. Jaskier bites down on the gag with a scream, his eyes pinching tightly shut. There’s no other options, he can’t get out of this the way he is now. No one’s coming for him either, he has to look out for himself. The next moment of clarity Jaskier has he pulls his knees up again, curling into a ball to swing his bound wrists under him and get his hands in front of him so that he can reach the chain around his neck. He rips off the enchantment as he gets the gag the rest of the way out of his mouth, his voice hoarse and dry but strong as he shouts, “ **_VORT AEN ME!_ ** ”

The magic is instant, a shockwave sending the bandits soaring away from him and making him drop to the ground. His injured leg buckles beneath him and he sways from the use of magic, he was never particularly skilled at it, but he can’t pass out yet as he drops to his knees. He grabs the dropped dagger and throws it at the nearest trader, the blade sinking into the eye of Tomas who drops to the ground. Jaskier’s disoriented by how many sounds he can suddenly hear now that his glamour is gone but he’s able to pick out the footsteps of one of the women coming up behind him so he bends backwards, almost laying flat on the ground so she’ll soar over him. He gets on top of her when she lands, slipping his arms over her head and pulling back so his bound wrists choke her. Her nails scratch at his forearms, digging and tearing at his skin, but he doesn’t let go until he’s heard her heart stop beating entirely beneath him. 

The other man had landed in the fire once more and is on the ground, his corpse burning to a crisp with the sickly scent of charred meat and burnt hair filling the clearing and as Jaskier looks up his eyes meet those of the other woman, Vela. 

She looks terrified and backs away from him, stepping on a branch which snaps beneath her foot. His eyes snap to the branch and then back up to her and he bares his teeth at her, making her turn white and gasp before turning and sprinting out of the clearing and away. Jaskier sighs and feels the body beneath him for a dagger, finding one in the waistband of her trousers, and he uses it to cut the rest of his bindings off. He then carefully climbs to his feet and looks around the clearing at the three dead bodies and feels his stomach lurch before he’s doubling over and emptying the meager contents of his stomach onto the ground, the acid burning his throat. He’s never killed anyone before.

Despite being an elf, Jaskier had stayed out of the whole situation with Nilfgaard, preferring to remain uninvolved so he could continue to be a traveling bard as he was before. Nilfgaard had promised the elves land to claim as their own again after they’d been run from their homes yet again by the northern countries and many of the elven clans had jumped on the opportunity, allying with Nilfgaard during the second invasion. Jaskier’s clan had too, but since he refused to participate he had been dishonorably exiled and stripped of his rank. He was allowed to keep his title though, something to mock him and remind him of what he’d lost just because he didn’t want to spill blood, just because he was happy to live alongside the funny little humans. Then the Great Cleansing occurred after Nilfgaard was defeated and Jaskier had to find a mage to make him a glamour that would be powerful enough to mask every part of his heritage from everyone, even the greatest of Witchers. It had been expensive, but it was possible, and the mage had enchanted his pendant with a glamour so powerful it even hid his elven nature from himself.

Jaskier coughs and spits, trying to clear his mouth of any remaining bile before picking up the pendant from the ground and turning it over in his hands. Aside from the tips of his ears and the lack of canines in his mouth, and a few other slightly less distinct physical traits, the pendant is the only thing he has left of the life he had with his clan. He runs his thumb over the face of the pendant, feeling the ridges of the crest under his skin, before tucking it in his pocket. The clasp is broken now so he can’t exactly put it on and the glamour has been shattered so the pendant holds no magical properties anymore. Jaskier sighs again and limps over to his broken lute and picks it up forlornly, grieving his trusty instrument as he holds it to his chest. It had stuck by his side for many years, never judging him and never wavering from his service. Truly his only friend, which is very pathetic, so he doesn’t linger on that for too long. He whispers a thank you to Filavandrel on the wind for his time with the lute before removing the thickest of the unbroken strings, one of the Gs, and winding it up to tuck in his pocket as well. 

He checks the other bodies and finds nothing of interest other than a few coins and another dagger so he takes those with him as he carefully shoulders his pack and continues towards Metinna. After he’s gotten some distance between himself and his old camp he stops to treat his wounds, hobbling down to a small pond. He leans over the reflective surface and pauses as he reaches to dip his hands in the water to look at his face.

His hair, while still matted with blood, is slightly curlier and more wispy, having grown quite a bit since he’s last had it cut, and it curls across his forehead and along his jaw. The points of his ears stick out from his hair and his eyes are a brighter, more electric blue now, the irises a thin ring around wide pupils as he has little trouble seeing in the dark now. His cheekbones are sharper and when he opens his mouth he sees that the canine teeth that had been in his mouth as a human are gone again, replaced with another set of incisors. He’s quite a few inches taller and more willowy, having been a bit on the stout side as a human. He reckons he’s as tall as Geralt now, he thinks in mild amusement. Geralt would be furious if he found out Jaskier had been lying to him for twenty two years…

Jaskier shakes his head to clear the thoughts of the Witcher and dips his hands in the water washing the blood from his face before carefully undressing and washing himself completely. He’s forgotten about most of the muscle that he carried as an elf, now suddenly visible again that the glamour is no longer holding him back, and he smirks slightly. Who’s soft and squishy now, hm? Once he’s cleaned his wounds he applies bandages as best he can to what he can see before settling down in the underbrush to sleep. It’s too risky to build a fire, someone else could spot it and come across him, but he’s also too exhausted from the use of magic and his injuries to keep going. Some sleep will do him good and heal a good portion of his pain. 

When Jaskier awakes he finishes the trek to Metinna and sells some of the odds and ends he had in his bag to the shops in the market and even parting with his beloved doublets for a hefty sum at the clothiers. With the coin he goes to the brothel so they can help him dye his hair a sandy blond and he goes to the apothecary to purchase some basic healing potions. He’s aware that people stare and whisper as he walks by, elves aren’t a common sight and are hated almost as much as, if not more than, Witchers. It’s risky for him to be in town at all, but he needs to finish running his errands. He gets new clothes, more subdued to blend in with the forest better, and purchases a new clasp for his pendant so he can fix it. His final stop is the weaponsmith but he slows as he passes a music shop, a beautiful lute standing in the window. He bites his lip as he gazes at it longingly and he must have stood there too long as the shop owner comes out with a scowl and a broom, taking a swing at Jaskier.

“Go on, get! No filthy elves are gonna put their dirty hands on my instruments! Keep moving!” the shopkeeper snarls before spitting in Jaskier’s face, not afraid of him despite being several inches shorter than the elf. Jaskier wipes the spit off his cheek and ducks his head with a murmured apology before turning and continuing on his way to the weaponsmith.

The woman in this shop stops hammering on the sword that’s held on her anvil and lifts her goggles to eye him warily, “Whaddya want, elf?”

Jaskier takes the lack of instant rejection to be a good sign and smiles brightly, “I’m here to purchase a bow as well as a sword, if that pleases you.” He scents the air and smells her trepidation to do business with him so he tries to make himself look as open and welcoming as possible.

She sets her hammer and clamp down and removes her thick gloves as she walks over with a curt nod, “Alright, let’s get this over with. In and out, ya hear? Don’t want nobody talking about how I got cozy with an elf. What kinda bow’d you like?” She gestures to a wall of bows and Jaskier can’t help the small whistle of delight as he looks them all over. His eyes slide from one bow to the next before landing on a recurve bow. 

70 inches long, made of black locust wood that leaves the bow a pleasant tan color with visible wood patterns on it and it has intricate leaves engraved into the face of the bow. It’s beautiful and Jaskier wants it. “That one.”

“200 crowns,” the weaponsmith replies immediately. Jaskier narrows his eyes slightly and leans on the counter with a charming smile.

“Did you do the engraving yourself?” He asks lightly, “it’s spectacular. So incredibly detailed, and the craftsmanship of the string alone is perfection. You are truly an artisan madame…?”

The woman looks at him for a few moments before grunting, “Ella. And it's 'miss'.”

“Miss Ella. I speak nothing but the truth, you must be the finest weaponsmith this side of the Sylte. Tell me, how long did it take you to craft such a wonderful instrument?” He’s hopeful that flattery will allow him to barter his price a bit lower.

Ella huffs and leans against the counter on the other side, crossing her strong arms, “A fortnight.”

“A fortnight! My dear, Ella, I can see no other reason for asking such a price then!” he looks up at her and scents the air again, smelling that she’s no longer wary of him and is starting to find him rather… endearing? Well that works.

She even giggles slightly, which nearly throws Jaskier but he’s nothing if not a thespian and keeps his bright smile in place, “You’re too kind, elf. I s’pose it did take me awhile. Tell you what. You said you’re gettin’ a sword too, right? I’ll throw in a quiver an’ a dozen arrows free if you pay full price.”

“Oh, Ella, darling, you’re too sweet,” Jaskier straightens up again and bows to Ella with a flourish, “truly the kindest soul in all of Metinna. I admit, I don’t know much about swords, could you point me in the right direction for one that’s suitable to an aspiring swordsman such as I?”

She hums as she looks at her swords and then back at Jaskier before picking out one about the length and width of his arm with the hilt wrapped tightly in brown leather. “I’d go lighter but I hear elves are awful strong even when they look like stick bugs.” Jaskier’s not sure if he should be offended or flattered by that as he takes the shortsword in his hand. It’s extraordinarily well balanced and he carefully moves it around as he remembers the very very basic sword handling Geralt showed him.

“Exquisite,” he murmurs, “Any chance you’ve got one made of steel and one of silver? It’s not the safest out there alone with only a steel sword to keep me company against the monsters.”

“You think you’d be able to take down a monster?” She raises an eyebrow at him incredulously.

“Maybe not take down, but incapacitate so I can get away? Certainly,” he smiles and pushes his hair back from his face, “Took down a couple nekkers a few months ago. When self-preservation comes into play, it’s astounding what humans and elves can do to protect themselves.”

Ella nods thoughtfully, “I seen it. My baby sister once got stuck under a wagon. Mama lifted the damn thing herself to get my sister out. Never seen anything else like it except for the kinda strength Witchers have.”

Jaskier nods with a hum, “So do you have any? Silver swords I mean?”

“You’re in luck,” Ella smiles and ducks under the counter, pulling an almost exact copy of the sword in Jaskier’s hand out and setting it on the counter. The difference in this sword is that it’s made of silver and the hilt is wrapped in black leather, “I got a Witcher that sometimes passes through here so I make copies of a lot of my swords in case he wants new ones.”

“How much for both swords and the recurve bow?” Jaskier asks, pulling out his coin purse that’s about to get much much lighter.

Ella looks at him for a long moment as she thinks, “Normally, I’d charge 200 for the bow and 150 each for the swords. But I dunno, somethin’ about you’s different, elf. So I’ll cut you a deal. 400 for all of it and I’ll still throw in the quiver and dozen arrows.”

100 less crowns than she’d allegedly ask otherwise? Jaskier isn’t one to turn his nose up at a deal so he grins and nods, “That sounds lovely, Ella. Thank you so much.” Money trades hands and Jaskier leaves the shop a great deal poorer but much more protected.

As he leaves Metinna with blond hair and dark clothes, swords on his hips and a bow on his back alongside his pack, Jaskier’s unsure of where to go. Without his lute he can’t exactly be a bard, but he can’t try to seek out any elves after being exiled from them. He should feel sad about being banished from his own people, but he’s had a long time to come to terms with it, and the emptiness deep down in his chest is  _ definitely _ not longing for his family. At least no one will recognize him anymore as the Witcher’s bard or an elf belonging to his old clan. 

He can’t look for Geralt either, that wound is much too sore still and the Witcher had made it abundantly clear he wanted nothing to do with Jaskier. He briefly entertains the idea of finding Yennefer but grimaces at the thought of dealing with the prickly mage that also certainly hates him. Despite running into her several times since the dragon hunt, he still finds it difficult to get a reading on her and where she stands on him. He glances down at the swords on his hips and hums softly to himself as he walks; he’ll just wander, he decides, searching through each place he passes through until he finds somebody willing to teach him how to wield them and fight properly.

He watched Geralt fight with swords for years, how hard can it be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 5 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	6. Madame Mayor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter also ended up being longer than it was originally going to be, and much more dialogue heavy than intended. Hopefully Geralt's not too OOC, he's so difficult to write! As a chatty person myself, Jaskier's more my speed. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The few coins in Geralt’s purse jingle sadly as he walks up to a tavern with Ciri in tow, having bedded Roach in the stables already. The air is cold as a storm brews overhead and sharp winds push their hair this way and that, so he reaches for Ciri’s hand to keep her close to him. The fourteen year old slips her hand into his and presses close to him, her hood covering her bowed head to protect her eyes against the stinging gales until they’re able to make it into the tavern. There aren’t many people inside but they look up as the door opens, the howling of nature accompanying the White Wolf’s arrival. It’s fitting, Geralt thinks, and Jaskier would find it terribly poetic. 

It’s been two years since the dragon hunt and Geralt still finds himself thinking about his bard on the daily, often multiple times a day. Everything reminds him of Jaskier. The twittering of birds makes him think of Jaskier’s incessant chatter, the whistling of wind through trees brings to mind low humming as he composed, the crunching of Geralt’s own boots on the roads as he walks alongside Roach who carries Ciri recalls memories of lighter footsteps that sometimes skipped alongside the horse while mumbled lyrics fill the air. Even just standing in the now silent tavern that watches him and Ciri warily makes his chest ache for the bard and he convinces himself it’s because Jaskier was all the better at dispersing attention away from Geralt.

Geralt walks up to the bar with Ciri in tow and steals himself for rejection as he growls, “I need a room and two meals.”

The barkeep looks up at him and then down at Ciri with an odd expression and Geralt notices that the man doesn’t smell like fear, but instead like curiosity, “I heard about you. Bard came through here, oh some time ago now. Geralt of Rivia, are you?”

Geralt keeps his expression neutral but can’t ignore the small jump of hope in his chest at the mention of a bard, “Hm,” he nods, “What was the bard’s name?”

“Afraid I don’t remember. Pretty small guy though,” the barkeep shrugs, “brown hair, blue eyes, sprightly as all hell. Still don’t understand how he was able to keep up that amount of energy for hours after traveling for days.”

Sounds like Jaskier. Geralt lets out a tiny sigh of relief before remembering the barkeep didn’t mention how long ago the bard was here, “When was the bard here?”

The barkeep’s eyes narrow slightly as suspicion makes the man’s hackles raise, “Maybe seven months ago now. Haven’t had much foot traffic through here since Cintra. Why you asking? You looking for him or something?”

“Relax,” Geralt glowers at the barkeep and Ciri nudges him slightly to remind him not to be too scary, “Just curious. Not looking for anyone.”

“Not a soul, hm?” a feminine voice asks from behind him and Ciri gasps as she spins around to face whoever is speaking to them now. Geralt’s hand is on his sword before it registers whose voice he heard and he relaxes as the familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries washes over him and he turns to see the very woman he and Ciri have been searching for.

“Yennefer,” Geralt rumbles and she rolls her eyes, striding up to the bar and giving the barkeep a smile.

“Anton, please get my friends here some stew and ale. Oh and milk for the girl. Don’t worry about boarding them, I’ll handle that,” Yennefer brushes her dark hair back over her shoulder to show off more of her cleavage. As per usual, the witch is dressed like she’s about to be attending the court of a king and not like she’s in a small town in the middle of nowhere Lyria, wearing a deep purple gown that hugs her curves like a second skin and leaves nothing to the imagination.

The barkeep nods with a small smile, “As you wish, madame mayor,” Anton snaps to a waitress and relays the order as Yennefer leads Geralt and Ciri to a table in the corner of the tavern, the chatter of the patrons having picked up again.

“So, I’ve heard that a Witcher with a child has been asking after me,” Yennefer says in a bored voice, leaning back in her chair and loosely crossing her arms. Ciri moves her chair to sit close to Geralt, the girl intimidated by the powerful mage.

Geralt hums with a nod, “Yes. This is… Fiona. Of Cintra. She needs a teacher.” He hopes Yennefer is able to connect the dots between what he says and what he means. 

If she is, her expression of mild distaste doesn’t change, “How appetizing. I don’t hear from you for two years and the next time I see you you’re begging for my help. Why does this seem familiar?”

“Yennefer,” Geralt growls in warning and Ciri glances up at Geralt, noticing the edge in his voice.

Ciri clears her throat softly and speaks then, “Please, mistress Yennefer, Geralt says you’re the most powerful mage in the continent. If anyone can help teach me to harness my chaos it’s you.”

Yennefer watches the girl but Geralt can see her violet eyes soften slightly. After a few moments she sighs and rolls her eyes, “Fine. I’ll help. But only if you do something for me first, Geralt. My services do not come free of charge.”

Geralt nods in understanding with a murmured, “of course.”

Yennefer spots the waitress and waits to speak until her company is served food and drink, both of them tucking in ravenously to the hearty stew. “As you’ve no doubt figured out, because I’m sure even you have enough brains to notice that Anton called me ‘mayor’, Geralt, I’ve taken this town under my wing. Guiding it to become better, and hopefully make it more profitable as it grows its crop, potatoes.”

“Potatoes?” Geralt raises his eyebrows slightly. He doesn’t recall potatoes being the most profitable of crops.

“Potatoes,” Yennefer nods, “The swampland here is particularly rich in silt to make large potatoes. When you ferment potatoes, you get vodka. When you purify vodka, you get alcohol. Which is a disinfectant and a breakthrough in the medical field. So with potatoes, my little town is assisting the healers of the continent. Quite astounding, yes?”

Geralt grunts in agreement. He hasn’t heard of alcohol being a disinfectant, it must be very new. Ciri looks intrigued though and is leaning forward, her spoon hanging loose and forgotten in her hand as she watches Yennefer speak. Geralt knows not to try and hurry the mage along, she’ll get to the point in her own time.

“Mm, yes,” Yennefer nods and appraises her perfect nails, “The problem is, something is attacking my farmers. If my farmers are attacked, the potatoes aren’t sown. And thus the alcohol yield will be smaller. I believe it to be a vampire of some sort. Unsure what kind.”

Geralt thinks about how Yennefer’s town is near a swamp and starts running through the types of vampires that could be here. It doesn’t seem nearly big enough to have much of a cemetery, but if there’s an abandoned one in the swamp… “Garkain.”

“Bless you,” Yennefer folds her arms again and looks up at Geralt who scowls and rolls his eyes.

“No, it’s a Garkain. Most likely. Your town isn’t big enough to have any sort of greater vampires, and you’re on the edge of a swamp. If there’s a forgotten cemetery in the swamp, a Garkain would lurk there. Any farmers that wandered a little too close to it would get attacked,” Geralt explains and then downs half his tankard of ale. Yennefer mulls over this information before nodding and pushing her hair back over her shoulder again.

“Alright, then you’ll take care of it and I’ll train your little Child Surprise,” Yennefer holds out her hand to shake Geralts. He looks down at her hand and notes the burn scars on her skin that wind up under her sleeves. He’s curious about them but he doesn’t ask, taking her hand in his own and shaking it once. Touching her doesn’t have the same spark of excitement it used to, and he finds himself almost disappointed from that. Almost.

“Oh don’t look so upset to be spending time with me,” Yennefer rolls her eyes with an almost smile, “I’m a delight to be around.”

“My birthday bard always said Yennefer of Vengerberg was ‘ _ nasty as a bruxa, be careful or she’ll hex ya, steal away your heart and rip it all apart _ ’,” Ciri says, singing the rhyme. Yennefer blinks in surprise as she looks at Ciri with her crimson lips parted slightly.

“Ciri-” Geralt starts with a frown but Yennefer then grins and starts laughing loudly, tossing her head back.

“Oh my! I knew your bard disliked me but to try that!” Yennefer cackles and tears spring to her eyes, “Gods above, to attempt to turn your Child Surprise against me with a silly nursery rhyme like I’m a monster that goes bump in the night. I didn’t think he had it in him!”

“Wait, what?” Geralt looks up at Yennefer in confusion, “What do you mean? You knew the bard that visited Ci- Fiona every year?”

Yennefer levels him with a look that makes him feel like he’s the biggest idiot in the entire continent, “Geralt, you truly are as dumb as a rock. Ciri, was your birthday bard named Jaskier?”

Ciri nods with a smile and bright eyes, “Yes! Do you know him?”

Geralt feels like the world has gone off kilter. Jaskier visited Ciri on her birthdays? Every year? Geralt’s not sure how that makes him feel. Actually, that’s not true, Geralt feels guilt. He feels guilty that Jaskier kept an eye on his Child Surprise when Geralt refused to. That Jaskier took it upon himself to keep in touch with Geralt’s destiny on Geralt’s behalf. He wonders how frequently Jaskier did things like that, he should have asked where Jaskier was going more often when they separated. He should have been more attentive as to the bard’s life, made him feel more welcome and wanted. Maybe then, when Geralt lost his temper, Jaskier wouldn’t have actually left for good. The guilt deepens, he shouldn’t be blaming Jaskier for doing what Geralt told him to do. This is no one’s fault but his own.

“Geralt?” Ciri’s voice draws him out of his thoughts and he looks down at the girl who is frowning at him, “Are you okay?”

He grunts and stands up, “Yennefer will take you to her home. I’m going to go take care of the Garkain.” Yennefer notes that Geralt’s very pointedly avoiding talking about Jaskier and makes a mental reminder to ask him about that later.

Yennefer stands as well and bows to hold her hand out to Ciri, “Come along, miss Fiona, let’s get you bathed and ready for bed. We’ll see tomorrow what sort of chaos you possess.” Ciri glances at Geralt and then nods, taking Yennefer’s hand and following her out of the tavern.

Geralt spends the next few hours dispatching the Garkain, thankful that it’s not a difficult job and that Yennefer is very good at assessing threats so she was right that it was just one vampire. When he returns, Anton the barkeep directs him to Yennefer’s house at the far edge of town and the witch wrinkles her nose at the sight of the blood and muck covered Witcher when he appears on her doorstep. She’s already got a bath drawn for him and a guest room prepared and when he’s done bathing she’s closed her door to him, barring him from sharing her bed. He sighs and prepares himself for his bed, cleaning his armor and weapons before laying down and staring at the ceiling for a long time as he thinks about nothing in particular, his thoughts wandering from one topic to the next. The common themes in many of them, however, are Cirilla and Jaskier. Which are the two people he’s still thinking about when he drifts off to sleep.

The following morning Geralt is, surprisingly, not the first one awake as he hears Yennefer talking to Ciri in a low voice outside of the house. With a yawn and a stretch, and a resistance of reaching for a bard he knows isn’t beside him, Geralt gets up and dresses himself before going outside to watch Yennefer talk to Ciri behind the house about chaos. The sky overhead is still overcast and the wind still whistles as the storm draws nearer.

“Chaos, is what mages and other magical beings use to create magic,” Yennefer is explaining. She’s sitting on a chair as Ciri stands in front of her, listening to her talk, “It’s all around us all the time. Most humans have no idea of its existence other than that a select few can harness it. Mages are people who are sensitive to chaos and are taught to control it, Witchers are not sensitive to chaos, but they have signs which allow them to use it in very small amounts. Cats, oddly enough, are sensitive to chaos at conjunction points where the spheres collided and so are dragons.” Yennefer crosses her legs and waves her hand, a small burst of flowers rising out of the grasses at their feet before settling again, “If you cannot control your chaos, it can consume you. Drive you mad.”

“Are there other things that have chaos?” Ciri asks curiously, “That aren’t humans?”

“Like?” Yennefer prompts. The child is bright, that is for certain, and Yennefer is looking forward to teaching her.

“I dunno. Monsters? Do they have magic?”

Yennefer hums, “I believe some do. Sirens, for one. Mers. You’d have to ask Geralt about that one.”

“What about elves?”

Yennefer pauses and watches Ciri for a moment before nodding, “All elves are able to sense chaos. However, not all of them have the talent to harness it.”

“What do you mean when you say harness it? Like using it?” Ciri inquires, tilting her head.

“Sort of,” Yennefer nods, “All magic comes with a price. To be able to harness chaos, you must be able to guide where the price is as well. When I lifted the flowers, I decided the price was some of my energy. But I could have chosen your energy, or the Witcher lurking in the shadows of my house.”

Ciri looks up to spot Geralt by the house and waves slightly and he nods in greeting, staying where he is. “So you could help people, but hurt other people at the same time?”

“How do you mean, child?”

“Like, if Geralt were injured, and I was very good at magic, I could heal him and make the price of it the lives of those who hurt him,” Ciri explains and Yennefer feels her respect for the child grow exponentially. She truly is Calanthe’s granddaughter, and Yennefer wonders if Ciri even recognizes how ruthless her statement was.

Yennefer nods, “Yes. But in order to control the price that much, you must be a very powerful mage. Otherwise, the price is most frequently your own energy. Now, before we continue, you told me that you can already use some of your chaos. I’d like you to show me.”

Ciri’s face twists into one of trepidation as she hesitates, “Are you sure? It’s not very… safe.”

“I can keep everyone safe while you demonstrate, child,” Yennefer reassures her, “Just let me know when you are to begin.” Ciri nods and backs up about ten paces before turning away from Yennefer so she’s facing the swamp.

“Okay,” she says in a soft voice and Yennefer waves her hand, creating a shield around the town and herself, and by extension Geralt. Ciri takes a deep breath and lets it out, feeling the chaos swell in her belly as she balls her fists at her sides. She then takes another breath, and a third, before finally screaming as loud as she can. The chaos is released in a tidal wave of power, bending the trees and the grasses and the ground trembles and cracks in front of her. Yennefer raises her eyebrows as she watches the display of unbridled and uncontrolled magic. When Ciri closes her mouth again she sways, finding herself suddenly unable to keep her eyes open, before she falls back and crumples.

“Ciri!” Geralt shouts and runs over to the princess, picking her up carefully as he checks her for injuries, “Yennefer, what did you  _ do _ ?”

“I did nothing, Geralt,” Yennefer’s lip curls as he throws the accusation at her, “The girl expended too much chaos, the price was her energy. She needs some sleep is all. Carry her inside, brute.” She turns and leads the way back indoors and Geralt looks down at Cirilla who looks a little pale but otherwise unharmed as she sleeps in his arms. He growls but follows Yennefer into the house, tucking Ciri back into her bed.

Yennefer is preparing tea when he comes back out of Ciri’s room, his jaw set and eyes flashing. The skies have opened up and he can hear heavy rain on the roof of the silent house, the ticking of a clock on the mantle extremely loud with no other sounds aside from the rain and the fire to drown it out. He remains silent for a few minutes before sitting down at the table and forcing out, “I… apologize.”

Yennefer glances up at him with unamused eyes, “That sounded physically painful for you. What are you apologizing for?”

Geralt struggles for a few more moments before speaking quietly, “Accusing you of hurting her.” Yennefer looks at him again before nodding and pouring them both some tea, sitting down across from him at the table. They sit in silence for a long time before Yennefer finally speaks again, asking the one thing Geralt didn’t want to answer.

“Where is he?”

Geralt looks down at the mug in his hands, the warmth of the tea leaching into his skin as he takes a shaky breath. Where is Jaskier? That’s a tough question. The obvious answer is not here. Not with Geralt, not anymore. Geralt decides to give the obvious answer anyway, “Not here.”

“You don’t know then,” Yennefer infers, raising an eyebrow at him.

Geralt scowls but shakes his head almost imperceptibly, “No.”

Yennefer hums and sips her tea thoughtfully as she watches the fire dance in her hearth, “It was odd, I’ll admit, seeing you not only with a child but also lacking the bard who followed you like a lost puppy.”

“Yennefer.”

“I’ve seen him, of course,” she says casually and Geralt’s head snaps up to look at her. She’s seen him and decided to wait until  _ now _ to tell him that?

“When?”

“When he came through here last. Several times before that as well. I thought it odd he wasn’t with you then either, but he always knew where you were when I asked,” she shrugs, “I assumed the two of you had parted ways briefly like you did every now and again.” Yennefer looks over at Geralt, “I am surprised you haven’t been keeping tabs on him. As he’s so ‘soft and squishy’.” Geralt winces slightly, he’s not surprised that Jaskier had mentioned that to Yennefer, especially since it sounds like the two of them might be something like friends now based on her fond tone of voice as she speaks of the bard. “What happened, Geralt? Jaskier refused to tell me, always pretended like things were perfect between the two of you still.”

Geralt drops his eyes to his tea again as he thinks of how best to answer. There’s no way he’s coming out of this not sounding like a complete ass so he figures blunt and honest is the way to go, “I told him that if life could give me one blessing it would be to take him off my hands.”

Yennefer’s eyes narrow and Geralt smells her sudden anger, “Why on the continent would you tell someone that? Especially your best friend? How cruel can you be, Geralt of Rivia?” Her voice is low and dangerous, “When did you say this to him?”

“After the dragon hunt,” Geralt admits quietly.

“After the... “ Yennefer looks at him incredulously and shakes her head, “Incredible. You’re telling me, you were that angry about not getting what you thought you wanted with me that you told your best friend to go fuck himself?” Geralt doesn’t answer, guilt turning his stomach and gnawing at his heart. “Of all the low, vile, twisted ways to… you truly are something else, Witcher.” Yennefer angrily sips her tea as she tries to gather her thoughts again.

“Have you heard from him?” Geralt asks softly and Yennefer looks over at him, “In the past six months. I haven’t… no one’s seen nor heard from him. I’m… worried.” She searches his eyes for something, holding his gaze for an uncomfortably long time, but Geralt doesn’t look away. He owes the mage at least this.

“I haven’t,” Yennefer shakes her head and looks away again, “I was hoping you might have. He seems to have dropped off the face of the planet.” Geralt’s chest tightens and a small choked sound slips from his throat, making Yennefer glance over at him again. “You miss him.” It isn’t a question but Geralt nods anyway.

“I didn’t realize… I took him for granted. You as well, and I’m sorry for that, Yennefer, truly,” Geralt sighs and sets the tea down so he can fiddle with his medallion, “I keep finding myself wishing for his company. Everything reminds me of him. I even want to hear him complain about how tired his feet are from traveling, he never meant it and that’s what was so… he was so dramatic and it was annoying when I first met him but then it was…” Geralt finds himself talking more than he has all year, and it’s about Jaskier. Of course it is, why wouldn’t it be? But now that he’s started he can’t stop, “There’s this emptiness in my chest that constantly gets worse when I think of him but I find myself wanting to think of him anyway even though it hurts me. It’s infuriating but also makes me feel like… that being apart from him for so long it feels like…”

“Like you’re dying,” Yennefer finishes quietly and Geralt looks up in surprise but nods. She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths before speaking, “Jaskier once told me that a grain of rice had more emotional comprehension than you. I didn’t believe him at the time, but I think he might be right.”

Geralt frowns in confusion, “I don’t…”

“You’re in love with him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 6 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	7. There's a Man of Dandelions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I was directed to a website of the interactive timeline for the Netflix Witcher series. This is both helpful and incredibly hindering as I had to go back through all of the previous six chapters and adjust the timeline. For your ease, this chapter begins a little over two years after the dragon hunt. I'll supply an up to date timeline and the link to the interactive timeline in the end notes. 
> 
> Enjoy!

Jaskier’s life holds a lot of uncertainties, but he knows one thing for sure at this exact moment: his ass _hurts_.

The elf swears vehemently as he’s knocked to the ground yet again, his victor standing over him with a drawn sword gleaming in the sunlight. A sun-tanned hand appears in Jaskier’s vision and he takes it, allowing himself to be hauled to his feet so he can go again. He’s been training with the silver and steel swords for two months now, having found himself a mentor, and while he’s very fast and good at dodging he’s not particularly good at landing blows of his own as of yet.

“You exposed your side again,” amber eyes gleam with mirth as Jaskier scowls.

“Well how am I to keep it hidden when I’m supposed to raise my arm to strike? Please, Eskel, if you’d be so kind as to explain the intricacies of astral projecting your arm so that it both protects your side and raises to bring the sword down upon your opponent, I am all ears,” Jaskier huffs as he adjusts his grip on his sword, “Better yet, I’d love a demonstration! To see a three armed Witcher would truly be-” his rant is cut short as Eskel drops him to the ground again with a strike to Jaskier’s hip as he sweeps Jaskier’s feet out from under him.

“Is that demonstration enough for you, elf?” Eskel laughs and sheaths his sword, holding his hand out to pull Jaskier to his feet once more. Jaskier blows his hair out of his face but takes Eskel’s offered hand as he gets back up again. “Come on, the sun’s setting so you ought to get inside. We can keep training tomorrow once I get back from a contract.”

Jaskier shakes his head but sheathes his own sword and follows Eskel towards the cottage at the edge of the woods, leaving the meadow at his back, “What would you like me to have prepared for you?” 

Jaskier had found Eskel a little over two months ago while searching for a swordsman to teach him how to wield the two deadly weapons he carried on his person. He had posted a simple flyer in a town that said ‘Sword teacher wanted. 10 crowns per day + other benefits’. To say he was surprised to find another Witcher, and one from the Wolf school who almost certainly knows Geralt if Jaskier were to ask, when he had opened the door to the cottage is a bit of an understatement. He couldn’t believe the odds and mentally cursed at Destiny before welcoming Eskel in once he was sure the Witcher wasn’t going to kill him for being an elf. The other benefits Jaskier had mentioned in the ad were free housing, in the form of an abandoned cottage that Jaskier found and renovated, as well as a doting servant in the form of Jaskier. He doesn’t explain why he knows so much about Witcher customs, and Eskel doesn’t ask which Jaskier appreciates, so things work out quite well for the both of them. Eskel teaches Jaskier how to fight with swords, and Jaskier pays Eskel a meager sum plus room and meal and other minor things like assistance with bathing or cleaning and repairing armor. It’s an arrangement that works well for the both of them, so they’ve held it this way for two months and Jaskier doesn’t see it changing soon unless something happens.

“D’you think you can make that bird dish you made last week? The one with the honeysuckle and I think you used quail?” Eskel asks as he rubs his stomach, “That was delicious, and I believe honeysuckle is still in season.”

Jaskier nods with a hum, “I’m happy to. I’ll see if I can’t find quail again in the marketplace, but if not I’ll have to substitute with another fowl. Perhaps pheasant. I hear they roam these parts.”

“I’ll keep an eye out for any while I’m gone, my friend, let you know,” Eskel opens the door to the cottage and holds it open for Jaskier who nods his thanks as he steps inside, making his way to the hearth to stir the embers of the morning’s flames and rekindle the fire for the evening. Eskel retrieves his armor and puts it on with a small amount of assistance from Jaskier before packing his bag with potions and leaving for the contract, mounting his horse and heading into the night. 

Jaskier had to admit that when he first saw Eskel on his doorstep, his instinct was to slam the door and flee. Not because the amber eyes of a Witcher were looking back at him, or even because of the striking resemblance to Geralt this man had if he were lacking the crescent moon scar on his face and his hair were long and white. No, it was because of the immense amounts of chaos this Witcher held in his hands, it had immediately set Jaskier on edge and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Eskel was polite as anything though, and incredibly friendly, so Jaskier had invited him in and there he had stayed.

Despite the initial panic, Jaskier and Eskel fell into an easy friendship and it’s nice how easy calling Jaskier a friend comes to Eskel. Jaskier would not and will not tell Eskel about knowing Geralt, but to have someone call him a friend after spending twenty two years with someone who would barely admit Jaskier was an acquaintance… well what can he say? He’s a simple elf with simple pleasures.

Jaskier fills the cauldron hung over the fire with water so it can heat for a bath and as he waits he spends the time stretching. He’s always observed the importance of staying limber during any physical activity, even before when his preferred form of activity involved being horizontal and in the nude, but Eskel has driven home the necessity of being flexible. Jaskier doesn’t have much strength so his greatest ally will be his speed and agility, if he can tire out his opponent he won’t need much strength to finish them off. Jaskier sits on the floor and extends one leg in front of him, tucking his other foot to his thigh and bending forward to touch his forehead to his knee as he wraps his hands around his extended foot. He goes through a set of stretches every morning when he wakes up and every evening before bed to loosen up his limbs and increase his range, and so far it’s been effective.

The cottage is quiet save for the crackling of the fire and his own heartbeat in his chest. He can hear the birds outside growing silent as they go to sleep and the rustling of nocturnal animals come to life while the moon rises and the last of the sun’s rays disappear behind the horizon. It’s too quiet, so he starts humming softly to himself to fill the silence, tapping his fingers on whatever they can reach. His arms ache to hold the weight of a lute once more, his hands sliding over the sleek wood and his fingers plucking the taut strings to make melodious music fill the air. But it’s not safe for him to be a bard, he’d be too recognizable and that’s not even mentioning the fact that no one would even allow him to play in their tavern anyway, what with the pointed ears and all. He’s lucky that the town nearby his cottage allows him to even go into the marketplace without stoning him for setting foot in a human occupied establishment. He’s learned the hard way that elves have become even more despised as their numbers dwindled, and he’s almost certain that it’s in part to his blasted song.

"Toss a Coin". Why on earth did he ever write that drivel? Geralt was right, he should have stuck to the facts. This all would have been avoided if Jaskier hadn’t been so stupid as to follow Geralt at all really, he should have listened when he was told to stay away from the White Wolf. The Butcher of Blaviken? The Butcher of Others Feelings is more apt. Jaskier’s done with feeling pity for himself, though. It’s been two years, if Geralt wanted him back he would have found Jaskier. No, Jaskier’s angry now. He’s angry and bitter and he’s sure it’s in part because he still has a great deal of love for his Witcher in his heart but he doesn’t know what to do with it anymore so it just upsets him. If Eskel ever notices his poor moods, he doesn’t ask and Jaskier’s greatful for that. Jaskier scowls and shakes his head as he stands up, completing his stretching exercises for the evening and preparing himself a bath. He doesn’t want to think of Geralt anymore than he absolutely has to, so unless it’s necessary, he won’t.

Jaskier tosses and turns as he tries to sleep, as he does most nights, the faces of the men and woman he killed lurking just behind closed eyelids. The charred body by the fire is present in all of his dreams, changing even the most pleasant of dreams to nightmares by always resurrecting and reaching for Jaskier with withered hands that snap and crumble as he fights back against the corpse until his back hits a wall and Jaskier looks up to have blood cover his face, filling his eyes and nose and mouth. He always stumbles away as he clears his vision, spitting out the taste of copper to see Tomas pull the dagger out of his skull, the eyeball still impaled on the blade which he whips at Jaskier. Jaskier will escape his own death by being tackled, hands wrapping around his throat in a vice as his eyes meet those of the woman he killed as she hisses, “look what you’ve done. You’re a monster. Worth less than even the most foul of beasts. You deserve to die, _Julian_ .” He always wants to cry out for help, to ask how she knows that name, but he can’t because he can’t breathe, he’s _dying_ and… He wakes up with a start and a scream on his lips, tears in his eyes. And just like every night he curls up with his knees to his chest and remains awake until the first rays of dawn kiss the gray sky, beginning a new day.

Over the next eight months, Jaskier is determined to think less of his past and ignore his night terrors. He focuses on the small garden he planted outside of the cottage and on his friendship with Eskel and his relationship with the townspeople. Geralt still occasionally comes to mind, as the people we love are wont to do, but the pang of longing in Jaskier’s chest is almost always accompanied by the bitter taste of anger and resentment. What if Jaskier _had_ been a human? What if he had wasted two decades of his incredibly short human life on being by the Witcher’s side, only to be cast away? Geralt doesn’t know that Jaskier isn’t human, that his lifespan is even longer than the Witcher’s own. How could Geralt be so self centered to not even _notice_ how much of the fragile human life at his side he was occupying? 

On the days when he just can’t get Geralt out of his mind, Jaskier throws himself into his training with a renewed vigor, every strike of his sword coming down harder, every dodge a little faster, every battle one that Jaskier is determined to win. And eventually, he does. It was one of those days, about twelve months after Eskel began training him, where the stupid Geralt of Rivia’s stupid face won’t leave Jaskier’s head, making him angry. It’s been _three years_ now, why can’t Jaskier just forget him? 

Their swords clash loudly in the meadow as Jaskier strikes suddenly, having been dodging and taunting for some time. Eskel’s thrown off balance by the sudden attack and, in a blind rage, Jaskier slides between Eskel’s legs and lashes out with the pommel of his sword at the back of Eskel’s knee, rolling in the opposite direction as the Witcher drops. As he rolls, he grabs Eskel’s ankle on the other leg and yanks, pulling Eskel’s feet out from under him entirely while Jaskier leaps to his own, putting the point of his sword gently against the back of Eskel’s neck.

Eskel and Jaskier take a few moments to catch their breath before Eskel grins and rolls over, clapping his hands in approval while Jaskier sheaths his sword. “Well done! I think my training here is done. That was quite a move there, my friend. I’ve only seen it a handful of times and never on a humanoid creature. It worked well to your advantage.” Jaskier smiles and holds his hand out to Eskel, hauling the Witcher to his feet. “I think you’re ready for your final test.”

“Final test?” Jaskier asks curiously, “Was that not it?”

“As much as I’d like to say you’re ready to be released into the world as you are now, elf, you have one final test,” Eskel grins and picks up his sword from the ground, slipping it into the sheath on his back, “While besting me is no easy feat, you could have done it by learning my patterns of movement and fighting style over the past year. So, to truly prove that you’ve learned all I can teach you, you’re going to dispose of the cockatrice that’s moved into the wine cellar of the winery in town.”

Which is how, two days later, Jaskier finds himself standing outside the barred storm doors of the winery’s cellar with his silver sword in hand as he looks down at the entrance. He touches the pendant around his neck for reassurance as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth and thinks about everything he knows about cockatrices. They’re incredibly fast and capable of flight, best fought when indoors or in dense forests so they can’t soar higher than Jaskier can reach. They tend to occupy sewers and swamps, so what one is doing in a winery he’s not sure. He’ll need to avoid its bite as much as possible, as the damn thing is venomous, however he does have an antidote with him if he does get bitten. The razor sharp feathers and talons of the cockatrice are also a danger, so with his knowledge of the monster in mind Jaskier takes a deep breath and nods.

Two of the winery workers unbar the storm doors and open them quickly so Jaskier can jump into the cellar before the cockatrice can escape, the doors slamming shut behind him. His eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim light, his pupils expanding until the large room is as bright as if it were midday, and Jaskier begins his hunt. He lifts his nose as he inhales, smelling the sweet scents of wines in the oak barrels lining the walls, bitter tannins tainting the saccharine smell. The cellar is incredibly quiet but then Jaskier hears something shuffle on the floor on the far side of the cellar, between two racks of bottled wine. He stalks silently over, his sword raised and knees bent in a defensive crouch as he peers between the racks, spotting the green flesh of the cockatrice’s body, the flash of silver feathers glinting with the movement of winged arms. 

He crouches lower behind the rack and breathes a curse as he spots the four eggs nested in a pile of broken glass and warm wine beneath the beast. A cockatrice is difficult enough as is, but a nesting one? With all those parental instincts? Jaskier’s not fucked per say but he’s got his work cut out for him. 

There’s no way for him to get the drop on the monster so his best option is to create a distraction so it abandons its nest long enough for him to destroy the eggs and then attack. He looks around as he thinks before spotting an empty wine bottle and picking it up, tossing it gently away from him in the opposite direction of the nest and it clatters across the cobblestone floor of the cellar. The cockatrice’s head jerks up and tilts as it listens before crowing softly and waddling off of the nest and past Jaskier’s hiding spot to go investigate. As quickly as he can, Jaskier slips out from between the racks and over to the eggs, picking them up and setting them on the cold ground so that the glass of the nest won’t make a sound as he pierces the soft flesh of each egg with his sword, the embryonic fluid inside hissing against the silver. It creates a horrible stench that Jaskier gags from when it reaches his sensitive nose and the cockatrice is suddenly upon him with an enraged shriek, its talons raking across his back. Jaskier cries out more in surprise than in pain and spins around, dodging the next attack from the creature as it swipes at him with its wing.

He dives into a roll to get into the larger, more open center of the cellar, his eyes still watering from the miasma that came from the eggs. He wonders if the vapors of the embryonic fluid contain cockatrice venom as his vision is blurring slightly, making his next dodge sloppier and leaving him open to attack. The cockatrice sees the opening and dives at him, knocking him onto his back and digging its clawed fingers into his shoulders and its talons into his hips. Jaskier grunts as he feels his blood stain his clothes, smells it on the air as the beast screams at him. The cockatrice goes in for the kill, its open maw diving for his throat but Jaskier gets one arm free of the cockatrice’s grip and sticks his forearm in the open mouth of the monster instead, teeth piercing his skin as it clamps down. This is his chance though as he slices his sword upwards, the blade sliding through the torso of the beast and it shrieks in pain, releasing his arm as the hot blood of the cockatrice flows down the handle and onto him. Jaskier twists the sword to finish the job and the cockatrice stops thrashing, submitting to its death. 

Jaskier sighs in relief and tosses the thing off of him, relinquishing his grip on his sword for a moment as he gets the antidote out of his pocket and downs it with a grimace at the foul taste. But he won’t die from being poisoned and that’s what matters. He climbs to his feet and removes his blade from the cockatrice’s belly before separating the head of the beast with a clean strike to the neck and sheathing his sword. He lifts the cockatrice’s head by one of its horns and walks to the cellar doors, pounding on them three times as instructed so they know he survived and isn’t the beast trying to escape. He hears the bars slide away before the doors open and he climbs the stairs, tossing the head on the ground once he’s out of the cellar.

There’s a moment of silence as breaths are held before a cheer erupts from the winery workers, surprising Jaskier as he looks around at their faces while they clap and whistle for him. It’s been a long time since he’s gotten anything other than sour looks from humans, and here they are celebrating him for slaying something that threatened their livelihoods.

“Well done, Jaskier!” Eskel grins and walks over, slapping him on his shoulder. Jaskier winces and Eskel grimaces slightly in apology, “Sorry, my friend, that was a bit tactless of me. Let's get you home and those wounds treated.”

“Thank you, Master Elf,” a woman approaches him and Jaskier looks over at her curiously. She smells nervous to be nearing him but also determined to complete her job. She’s dressed in a uniform with the winery emblem on her lapel so he determines that she must be the owner, “That cockatrice took up residence a few weeks ago and we haven’t been able to rid ourselves of it. You’ve done us a great service.” She hands him a heavy coin purse and he blinks, shaking himself out of his stupor and smiling at her.

He gives her a low bow with a flourish as he straightens up again, disregarding the pain in his back from the motion, “It’s my pleasure, madame. Anything for the good people of this winery, and of course the wine.” He winks and the woman laughs softly and steps away again, allowing him and Eskel to make their escape back to the cottage. As they walk away Jaskier hears the distinct strumming of a lute as the winery bard strikes up a tune in celebration of the beast’s demise and he smiles, satisfied with his work this day and the jingle of coin in his pocket.

_“Oh there’s a man of dandelions, with eyes so bright and blue_   
_He saved our wine from certain doom, he saved both me and you._   
_A Jaskier that can’t be bent, a buttercup that can’t be trod_   
_His sword swung true and next we knew_   
_That cockatrice was done and gone!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 7 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> Spring Crocuses Complete Timeline:
> 
> Chapter 1: Down the Mountain - Immediately after Rare Species (S1E6)  
> Chapter 2: Burning Eyes - 1 year after the dragon hunt. Immediately after Destinies Meet (S1E8)  
> Chapter 3: Overwhelming Silence - 1 year and 6 months after the dragon hunt  
> Chapter 4: Lavender and Wood Oil - 1 year and 6+ months after the dragon hunt  
> Chapter 5: Silver and Steel - 1 year and 6 months after the dragon hunt  
> Chapter 6: Madame Mayor - 2 years after the dragon hunt  
> Chapter 7: There's a Man of Dandelions - 2-3 years after the dragon hunt
> 
> Netflix The Witcher Interactive Timeline: https://www.witchernetflix.com/en-gb
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	8. Song in the Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little shorter than the past few have been, but we're getting to the action soon! The nitty gritty is coming :D
> 
> Enjoy!

_ “You’re in love with him.” _

The moment those five simple words fell from Yennefer’s lips Geralt’s eyes had widened and he had recoiled from her as though she had hurled the most offensive slur she possibly could have thought of at him. She presses her lips together and watches him as he blinks at her before he looks away silently and she can’t stop the small quirk of her lips upwards in amusement. It never ceases to entertain her to confuse the Witcher, but this was truly something else. She had startled him so much with her revelation of  _ his own feelings _ that his usual neutral to mildly annoyed facade vanished, leaving his expression open to be read like the rarest of first editions.

Yennefer remains silent herself, watching him with her keen violet eyes as she sips her tea. She watches as his confusion gives way to denial, his lips twisting into a frown as he thinks. His denial on his tongue wars with the longing in his golden eyes and she tilts her head curiously as he glances around then like he’s looking for something. She’s noticed him doing it several times in just the two days they’ve been reunited, frequently searching for something whenever he looks uncertain. She fights the smile that threatens to grow and buries her face in her mug as she realizes that even as he internally denies his love for the bard, Geralt’s looking for the reassuring comfort of his presence. 

They remain silent as she finishes her tea, Geralt’s own growing cold on the table in front of him, and she gets to her feet with the soft rustle of her gown, “Thank you for your company as I enjoyed my tea,” Yennefer looks down at him and he glances up at her, still looking distracted as he nods with a small grunt. She rolls her eyes and rinses her mug in the wash basin before heading to bed, leaving the Witcher to his musings. Perhaps it was wrong of her to tell him what she thought was the obvious. 

Or perhaps not, she thinks, as the Witcher stays relatively quiet over the next two months. He’s extremely helpful when he’s around, himself and the princess doing chores to keep the cottage clean and the horses healthy while Yennefer tends to her mayoral duties. After the first week at the cottage he does start taking contracts, leaving her with the child for several days at a time to fight some monster or another Yennefer doesn’t particularly care about the details, but she’s content to stay like this. The Witcher does seem to be more in tune with his own emotions now as well, noticing if he’s getting angry and taking a step back to cool down, aware if he’s antsy and using his time to meditate and calm his nerves. Yennefer finds herself glad that she told him about his feelings so bluntly, if only because it got him to stop moping and be more attentive.

And then the questions started.

“When did you see him first?” Geralt asks her one night after Ciri had already gone to bed, the two of them sharing a cup of tea like they do most nights. Yennefer looks up from her book and arches a single perfect eyebrow at him questioningly. They’ve been bunking together for nearly four months now, and their nightly conversations usually steer very clear of who Yennefer suspects Geralt is talking about.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Geralt. Do be more concise with your inquiries,” she turns her attention back to her book, not expecting him to answer right away since she’s subtly insulted him.

But alas, Geralt speaks again immediately, “Jaskier. After the dragon hunt. When did you see him first?” He shifts to face her more from where he’s seated on her other couch, the steam of his tea curling up to caress his stubbled cheeks. “You said you ran into him a few times. When?”

Yennefer sighs and closes her book, marking her page with a black silk ribbon and sets it aside on a nearby table. She then stands and goes to the cupboard, pulling out a crystal tumbler of amber liquid and bringing it over. When she uncorks it the heady scent of whiskey fills the air and she adds a splash to her tea, holding out the tumbler in offering to Geralt. He presses his lips together but extends his mug, allowing her to spike his own beverage before putting the spirit away and settling down again.

“Let me think,” she murmurs, “I saw him… oh maybe a handful of times. Haven’t seen nor heard from him in a while, same as you.” She taps her fingernails on her mug as she tilts her head back and closes her eyes. Geralt waits for her to begin, though she can sense his growing impatience which tickles her fancy and she smiles slightly. 

“Alright,” she says finally and sips her tea, reveling in the burn of the whiskey down her throat, “The first time I saw him after the dragon hunt was maybe two weeks past. Little tiny town in Temeria, Zavada, just outside of Carreras. Dunno what led me there but I felt like I needed to travel in that direction. I entered the tavern of the godforsaken place, truly it was terrible, Geralt. Reeked of piss and shit and death, I have no idea what the bard was doing there. Seems like the very last place he’d like to be, but there he was at the bar with that stupid lute of his on his back and a half dozen glasses in front of him. Pissed out of his mind,” she shakes her head as she recalls the experience of seeing him. She doesn’t tell Geralt about the concern she had felt at seeing his bard drunker than a stranded sailor left with nothing but the rum rations in the middle of the ocean. Geralt is leaning forward, his tea forgotten in his hands as he hangs on to her every word.

“I walked up to him to find out what the dramatic bastard was heartbroken about this time, and possibly for some entertainment, and when I sat down he barely spared a glance at me. Me! The shitstain hates my guts for ten years and then when I corner him alone he can’t hardly be bothered to give me the time of day!” She waves her hand and Geralt remains silent but she sees his jaw clench slightly. “Either way, I ask him what’s got his panties in a twist and he glared at me and told me to fuck off, which was much more what I’m used to from him despite his less than eloquent wording which was unusual for the dainty lad but I chalked it up to him being more drunk than a friar who broke his vow of celibacy and got locked in with the communion wine-”

“Yennefer,” Geralt growls, growing impatient. She’s saying so many words but hardly telling him anything. It’s very Jaskier-esque of her.

“Yes, yes, anyway,” she waves her hand dismissively and sips her tea, languishing in Geralt’s annoyance, “Finally I get him to stop drowning his liver and get him up to his room, which is no easy feat I’ll tell you. For such a slight man he’s heavy as nothing. Must be all that secret muscle he built from following you. He passes out the moment he’s down and that was that.”

“What was wrong with him?” Geralt asks with a frown, “Wait, you just left him there?”

“No, I’m not a complete monster. I stayed until I was sure he wasn’t going to vomit and choke to death. Then I left,” she shrugs and turns sideways on her couch, extending her legs across it.

Geralt scowls, she didn’t answer his first question, “What was wrong then?”

“At the time, I didn’t know. He would either ramble aimlessly at me or he would spit very unoriginal insults at me. It wasn’t our most exciting back and forth,” she shakes her head, “However, with the knowledge you have bestowed upon me, Master Witcher, I can confidently say he was heartbroken. A man drowning in sorrow turned to drink.”

Geralt opens his mouth to ask what she means but stops himself, falling silent as he thinks about her words and she watches as guilt settles in his chest and shines in his eyes. He’s starting to realize how badly his words hurt his bard and Yennefer finds herself pitying him.

“Chin up, Geralt. The time after that I saw him he called me ‘a toe so crooked that the lack of balance from chopping it off would be preferable to keeping it a second longer’,” Yennefer snickers at the insult Jaskier had hurled at her. Seconds earlier, she had called him a ‘half rate minstrel with a voice to rival that of a duck’ which earned her his ire, “So he must have been feeling better.” 

Geralt glances up at her and the corners of his lips tug upwards in a tiny smile as he nods with a hum, “must have. Not his best work though.”

“No, but it’s more creative than just calling me a cunt,” Yennefer laughs and Geralt’s smile grows a little more.

He seems satisfied for a while but soon enough asks about Jaskier again so Yennefer finds herself telling him about the half a dozen times she ran into the bard and the occasional adventure they embarked on. One night she tells him about the argument they had, about fish of all things, that was so loud it shook the foundation of the inn he was residing in and got them both evicted, leading to them sharing a campsite outside of town. Another night she tells him about the time Jaskier escorted Yennefer to a high court, acting as her date to fend off any unwanted advances. Yennefer’s not blind, she knows Jaskier’s an extremely attractive man, so she had figured that the two of them together would draw enough attention to distract from her ultimate goal of ensnaring the heart of the presiding noble. It didn’t work as one of the other party-goers recognized Jaskier and was a jilted lover of his so they had to make a quick escape that resulted in them covered in mud and soaked to the bone after they tumbled into a lake. 

Geralt seems to cheer up more when she tells him about her exploits with the bard which makes Yennefer happy because it keeps Ciri happy when Geralt is happy. Which is very tedious and reminds Yennefer why she usually keeps to herself.

Cirilla is a good student, a dedicated pupil and fast learner who has little issue with the academia of magics. Yennefer enjoys teaching Ciri about various magical plants, the laws of magic, the types of magic that are available, magical myths and magical fact, potion making, alchemy, and spell casting as Ciri soaks it up like a sponge that cannot be squeezed. The child’s mind is an iron trap for knowledge and she excels at her studies. 

However, Ciri can’t quite grasp the practical side of her studies. She’s still able to gather her chaos into a powerful scream, and she can vaguely direct it with some words, but she has no finesse or control over it. She has no way of harnessing the power that she wields. It’s mildly frustrating to Yennefer as she can’t figure out what the child needs to be able to unlock that part of her ability. And she’s sure it’s extremely frustrating to Cirilla, who just wants to be able to control this terrifying part of herself.

About a year after Geralt and Ciri first arrived at Yennefer’s home Yennefer hears soft singing out in the garden. She’s heard Cirilla sing before, but it’s always been a song of the bard’s being murmured under her breath to help Geralt fall asleep. Something about this song sounds different and Yennefer tilts her head up to hear better before looking out the window over where she had sent Ciri to tend to the vegetables.

The, now fifteen-year-old, girl is focussed on aerating the soil around the cabbages, her singing more of a hum with random words here and there. Yennefer watches as the wind blows a little stronger and the wilted leaves of their tomato plants perk up and turn a deep emerald green. That’s something she’s never seen before. Yennefer moves closer to the window as her mind races; Ciri is able to control her chaos… through music? The irony is palpable and Yennefer thinks back to when Geralt told her the story of Pavetta’s betrothal and when he claimed the Law of Surprise. Perhaps his bard was more important to events than either of them realized.

That night over dinner Yennefer clears her throat to get Geralt and Ciri’s attention, both of them looking over at her as she takes a drink of her wine and gathers her thoughts. Finally, she speaks, “Geralt.”

“Hm,” Geralt raises his eyebrows slightly at her. She already had his attention from clearing her throat.

“You’re aware you’ve been living in my home for the past year, correct?” Yennefer looks over at him, swirling her wine gently in her goblet. Ciri glances between them, not sure what Yennefer is going to ask. Geralt looks just as confused but nods.

“Yes, I understand the passage of time, Yennefer.”

“Good good,” she nods and sips her wine, “Then I have a favor to ask of you. Consider it payment for allowing you to stay here while I train your Child Surprise.”

Ciri opens her mouth to argue on Geralt’s behalf but he raises his hand to silence her, “What’s the favor?”

Yennefer hums softly, “I noticed today that Cirilla has more control over her chaos than I previously thought.”

“I do?” Ciri looks confused, her brows pinching together, “I can’t do anything though.”

“Au contrair, child,” Yennefer shakes her head, “Today, while you sang in the garden, I watched as our terrible tomato plants revived themselves. As the sun shone a little brighter and the sky got a little more blue. I’m only ashamed I didn’t figure it out sooner.”

Geralt growls slightly, “Figure what out sooner? Yen?”

“Ciri’s chaos is controlled by her voice. But not her speaking voice, her emotional one,” Yennefer says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “When she screams it’s an emotional cry for help, a shout of duress, or even a shriek of glee. When one  _ sings _ …” She looks up at Geralt over her goblet as he puts the pieces together.

“Songs are stories, emotions told through music,” Geralt finishes and she nods.

“Bingo.”

Ciri shakes her head, “I still don’t understand. What’s the favor you need of Geralt?”

“Well,” Yennefer drawls, “I’m no musician. And last I checked Geralt isn’t either, unless you’ve taken up the banjo in your spare time, Witcher?” He scowls at her in response. “I thought not. So, we need a musician.”

“What for?” Ciri asks, sitting up straighter as she bites her lip slightly. Bringing another person into this is something that makes her nervous, but if Yennefer says they need someone else…

“To teach you music of course,” Yennefer explains and finishes off her wine, “And with power such as yours, we’ll need the best musician we can find.”

“So you need Geralt to find a master bard?” Ciri tilts her head slightly.

Yennefer smiles and looks over at Geralt, calm violet eyes meeting desperate gold. He's figured out what she's going to ask him and the answer is already on the tip of his tongue. She knows he’ll say yes, that he’ll leave at first light to do this for them because he wants this as much as they need it. “I don’t need Geralt to find  _ a _ master bard. I need Geralt to find  _ his _ master bard.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 8 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	9. Kikimora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up writing a whole ballad for this fic to go with the lyrics in the last chapter. If anyone's interested in seeing the entire song let me know and I can upload it as a separate work!
> 
> Enjoy!

It isn’t long after Jaskier’s battle with the cockatrice that he and Eskel part ways. Eskel feels confident that the elf can look after himself with the swords that now rest on his back, having graduated from their positions on his hips to a place of honor alongside his bow, and winter is soon coming so the Witcher needs to begin his trek to Kaer Morhen seeing as he skipped last winter to train Jaskier. He lingers long enough to make sure Jaskier won’t keel over dead from mistreating his injuries and leaves Jaskier with a parting smile and friendly hug when Jaskier reassures him for the umpteenth time that yes, Jaskier is very well versed in caring for injuries and will heal just fine thank you for your concern. 

Jaskier stays in the cottage for a few days past Eskel’s departure before heading out on his own, forging his wandering path through the continent with a whistle on his lips and hands in his pockets. All the scars he sustained are easily hidden by clothes, but also make Jaskier look rather dashing if he does say so himself, with the puncture wounds from sharp teeth around his right forearm and slashes from claws across his back and shoulders and a few small lines on his hips gifted by the talons of of the cockatrice from when it grabbed hold of him. His body is more of a warrior than a bard, and will hopefully deter people from choosing him as a target of robbery on the roads. It’s worked so far as he’s been on the road again for close to four months and hasn’t been attacked without reason.

He’s not a complete imbecile, he does wear a hat to cover his pointed ears. It’s a stupid one, plain and drab and browner than his hair is blond, which is long enough to be plaited now, but it gets the job done. If he were able to choose any hat he’d like he’d choose a pirate hat, truly pirate captains know how to dress. The flair! The drama! Long blood red cloaks and knee high boots and frilly shirts that bare one’s scarred chest and frames the hook at the end of one arm. And those beautiful, glorious tri-fold hats with a stupendously large plumed feather stuck jauntily in the band. Jaskier sighs at the thought of such finery, he’d love to wear a hat such as that someday. Maybe he’ll finally go to the coast now and become a pirate.

The dread pirate Jaskier, now there’s a tale, a song just waiting to be sung. If he were a pirate, Jaskier would be able to write _sea shanties_ instead of ballads and the thought alone makes butterflies of giddy excitement erupt in his stomach, a hop springing into his step as he daydreams. Granted, nothing ever stopped him from writing shanties before but he never felt right about it. He’d never been on the sea, never even seen it, so how could he write a shanty to be sung by the men and women that sailed upon it? Something gruff and low whispers to him in a voice that Jaskier deliberately tries not to remember that _being a pirate is dangerous, you idiot, are you trying to get yourself killed?_ And sure, if Jaskier truly wanted to get on the sea he could become a sailor but he’s never cared for any government and he’s not a fan of merchants either so were he to become a man of the ocean then a pirate’s life is the one for him.

He’s pulled from his daydream as he hears the faint sounds of a town as he crests a hill, whistling pleasantly to himself and squinting against the bright sunny day of early spring. It’s still cold enough that many people are bundled up but Jaskier’s warmer than a dragon in a pool of lava despite wearing just a thin black chemise tucked into midnight blue trousers that button up to his navel. A forgotten benefit of being an elf, his internal temperature self regulates to the temperature of the world around him so he can never freeze to death or overheat from the natural elements. Jaskier adjusts his cap so it’s assuredly covering his ears as he approaches the town and heads for the square, looking for their notice board to see if they have any work.

He wouldn’t say he’s stealing work from Witchers, but he’s definitely been doing population control over the winter while all the enhanced humans squirreled away to wherever they hid in the cold. If a monster posting doesn’t specifically ask for a Witcher or a human, then Jaskier will offer his services as an elf. The humans will accept it, as they don’t care whether he lives or dies and if he kills the beast then they’re saved from peril, and he gets out of town before they change their minds about paying him and decide the only good elf is a dead elf.

Jaskier’s whistling drops to soft humming under his breath as he approaches the notice board, leaning forward to read the faded pages for any monster postings. No one’s visited this town in a while, he notes, as there’s an old posting for a kikimora that begs for someone to dispose of it still hung on the board. Jaskier frowns softly and shakes his head, a kikimora is a little outside of his range of experience and skill. He might as well leave this one for a Witcher after all, hopefully one will pass through here soon. Jaskier’s not sure how close this town is to Kaer Morhen, but he knows there are other Witcher schools scattered about the continent, surely one of them is nearby. He starts to turn away to leave when a hand grabs his arm, startling him badly as he yanks his arm free of the weak grip, his other hand going for the dagger in his belt as he turns to see who grabbed him.

It’s an old woman, doubled over from the age that bends her spine and shrivels her skin. Her hair is loose and wiry and her milky grey eyes are too large in her sunken face. Her clothes hang from her bony frame and Jaskier opens his mouth to speak with a frown, to ask her why she laid her hand on him, but she speaks first.

“Please, sir,” her voice is so very frail and thin and Jaskier feels himself softening already. Damn his empathy. “Please, I see your silver sword. Are you a Witcher?”

“No,” Jaskier murmurs, letting go of the handle of his dagger and gently placing his hand on the woman’s shoulder, “I’m afraid not. I carry it for protection against monsters.”

“So you are able to kill them?” The woman’s mind is sharp despite her age and Jaskier’s eyes narrow slightly, “Please, it got my son and his wife. It got my grandbabies. It snatches up children that wander too close to the water's edge. Please, you must help us.”

“I… I’m afraid I can’t,” Jaskier feels awful to be telling her no. But his chances of surviving a kikimora aren’t good, the things are fast and huge and have more limbs than Jaskier cares to think about. They’re not venomous but every part of a warrior kikimora is a weapon and it has a large domed shield like a beetle. He’d have to hope it’s a worker kikimora and not a warrior he’d be going up against.

The woman looks distraught and grabs onto his arm, her grip tight and unyielding as Jaskier tries to jump back, “It’s killed so many of us! Please, sir, you have to help! Or else the blood of any more children that perish, any parents that die for their young, their blood is on your hands!”

Jaskier’s stomach twists as he looks at her hands and then into her milky eyes, chewing on his lip as he thinks. He can’t have their blood on his hands, he’s still plagued by the blood of the black market traders. If innocent blood was spilled because he didn’t do something when he could have and she smells of such desperation…

“Alright,” Jaskier says quietly, “Alright, I will kill the kikimora for you. For your son and his family. But I will need a horse.”

The horse the woman provides him with is a dapple grey gelding about 14 hands high which Jaskier promptly dubs Pegasus despite the lack of speed the horse has when he mounts it. The old woman smiles and grabs Jaskier’s hand before he can leave, making Jaskier look down at her.

“I don’t have much coin, sir elf,” the woman says and Jaskier’s other hand reaches to pull his hat down more securely over his ears, “Your ears didn’t tip me off, I know an Evellian when I see one. Thank you for doing this, when you return Pegasus is yours in addition to whatever coin the town pays you. This means so much to me.”

“Of course, madame,” Jaskier says softly and caresses the old woman’s cheek. She sighs and closes her eyes, leaning into his hand, “I will return with the head of the beast in hand for you. For your family and all the families who have fallen victim to it. I will protect your town.”

“I know you will,” she whispers and presses a blessing to his palm before stepping back and allowing him to exit the town, Pegasus plodding towards the swampy waters that lurk beyond the tree line. What has he gotten himself into?

The midday sun dims as the trees reach high overhead, creating a dense canopy that blocks out the sky. The air is thick and damp and a heavy mist spills through the forest that Jaskier can hardly see through, let alone his horse, so he dismounts once he can no longer confidently direct Pegasus through the swamp and ties the horse’s reins to a nearby tree in such a way that the horse can pull free if threatened. “Stay here,” Jaskier murmurs and pats Pegasus’s neck before removing the silver sword from the sheath on his saddle and progressing deeper into the mist, the sounds of the nervous horse falling away. The murky and dank smells of mildew and mold overwhelm his nose so he can’t smell anything but the swamp itself.

Jaskier strains his ears to hear movement in the waters of the various ponds and lakes around him, listening for the scraping of chitin against the mossy ground or against the damp bark of trees. He slows his walk for a moment when he thinks he hears something, turning his head and closing his eyes to focus more and his only warning of attack is a bubble surfacing and popping in the lake to his right before the kikimora bursts out of the water with an inhuman screech.

Jaskier shouts and dives out of the way of the pointed legs that jab at him, the sharp ends stabbing deep into the soft earth. His sword scrapes against a rock embedded in the ground and the kikimora looks over at him, turning its many eyes to focus on his moving shape in the darkness. Jaskier swears and sprints out of the way of another jab of a leg, he hates how many these things have. Overgrown spiders, the lot of them. Why if he were in charge of creating a beast, a spider would be the last thing he chose to base his creation on.

That’s all the free thinking he gets to risk before the kikimora is on the attack again, its legs skittering across the rocks that line the lake as it crawls sideways to track him. While he’s running he gets a better look at the beast. While he was hoping for a worker, the fact that it attacked him first without provocation implies that this is a warrior kikimora, and much to his chagrin it is the more aggressive archetype of monster. The same six appendages and seven eyes, but with razor edged legs and sharp thorns at each point. Surrounding the kikimora’s mouth are horns and several disgusting barbed tentacles. The saliva of a warrior kikimora is thick and viscous, used to trap its prey and can drown if gotten into the nose or mouth, and it has a large dome of chitin armor that it can cover itself with in defense. 

While analyzing his foe Jaskier loses sight of one of the kikimora’s legs for just half a second. He slows his sprint just long enough to try to find it again and there’s a blinding pain as the barbs on the leg tear through Jaskier’s shoulder and rip down his arm, slicing through his armor as though it wasn’t there at all. 

With a yell of pain he stumbles and falls, tucking into a roll to absorb his impact and try to cradle his injured limb. The kikimora screeches and dives at him and he rolls out of the way just in time, feeling the end of his braid get roughly chopped by the legs that stab into the ground once more. Jaskier scrambles to his feet, his hair coming loose from the plait and hanging around his face as he tries to figure out what to do. He’d never been allowed to follow Geralt to a kikimora battle so all his knowledge is second hand. 

He needs to incapacitate it, is the conclusion he comes to. If the stupid thing can’t stab him then he has a better chance of reaching the head that towers over him. Jaskier lost his sword when he fell so he searches for it now, spotting the shining silver in the dim light and running past the kikimora for it. The monster spots him and charges, covering itself with its armor to try and bash him. Jaskier dives forwards and narrowly misses decapitation, the edge of the chitin clipping his ankle painfully as he grabs his sword. 

Jaskier grimaces but rolls again to avoid the beast as he gets to his feet, pacing carefully as he waits for it to expose its legs once more. As long as that armor is down Jaskier can’t hit it, but it can’t hit or see him either. 

Finally the kikimora raises the armor to find him again and Jaskier runs forwards, darting beneath the monster and slashing at the weak joints in the beast’s limbs. He’s able to remove the two centers of the six legs and the kikimora screeches angrily as the legs fall away, leaving it standing on just four. It can’t dive at him anymore without the balance four legs provided it and Jaskier turns to try and get another leg when one of the back legs thrashes out, catching him across the face and knocking him onto his back.

The tang of copper sits heavily in Jaskier’s mouth and he can’t see out of one eye. For a moment he thinks he’s been blinded but he’s able to wipe the blood away with the cuff of his sleeve before it fills his vision again. Jaskier scowls, ignoring the pain that the action causes, and gets up again with a shake of his head to try and pass the wave of vertigo that crashes over him. Head injuries are no joke, he knows this, so the sooner he takes care of this fucking monster the sooner he can patch himself up.

The kikimora can surely smell the blood pouring off of Jaskier as he’s barely gotten to his feet before he’s batted aside like a mouse caught by a feral cat, thrown into a tree by a leg across his torso. The air in his lungs leaves him in a wheezing breath which he tries to get back, struggling to breathe as he looks up for the kikimora and dives out of the way of another strike of the beast’s leg. 

The tree he was against shakes violently as the kikimora hits it, the monster’s leg sticking deep in the soft wood. It screams in outrage as it tries to pull its leg back out and is unable to, giving Jaskier an idea.

“Not much strength for pulling, huh?” he shouts as he gets up, running for another tree, “You should work on that, don’t want to be mistaken for a cocksucking whoreson now, do you?” The kikimora roars in response to Jaskier’s taunts and jabs its other front leg at him so he ducks and the leg goes deep into the wood of the other tree, effectively trapping the monster. Jaskier cheers and then blows a raspberry at the kikimora before sauntering towards its back legs to dispose of them. No point in taking chances.

He’s a little overly cocky though, for as he draws back his sword the kikimora lashes out with its hind leg and hits him in the shins, slicing the delicate skin open and knocking him to the ground. Jaskier growls and gets to his feet, making quick work of the hind leg and the kikimora screeches, collapsing to the left side without the support of its legs. He then removes the right hind leg and finally both front legs, leaving the kikimora’s head in range of his sword.

“I would say it was an honor to fight you, but that would be a lie,” Jaskier snarls at it and brings his sword down, taking off the kikimora’s head in one fell swoop. He sways slightly as fatigue rushes over him but shakes his head, he needs to get this back to the town. Maybe they’ll have a healer there too who can help him out.

Jaskier carries his sword in the hand of his injured arm as it's much lighter than the chitinous mass of the kikimora head that he drags behind him while he hikes back to Pegasus who is, thankfully, still where Jaskier left him. Jaskier takes a large burlap sack out of one of Pegasus’s saddle bags and fits the head of the kikimora into it before tying it to Pegasus’s saddle and mounting the horse.

They make their way back to the town where the old woman stands with a small gathered crowd, awaiting his return. She clasps her hands together over her heart when he emerges from the trees with the blood sack being dragged behind him, hobbling away from the crowd with tears in her milky eyes. The crowd reeks of wariness and anger that’s directed at him and he frowns slightly, not understanding why.

“You did it!” she cries out and he pulls back on Pegasus’s reins to stop the horse as the woman falls to her knees, “You killed it! Thank you, thank you!”

Another woman hurries forward, glancing up at Jaskier and this woman’s green eyes flick to the side of Jaskier’s head. She smells like fear and anger. She pulls the old woman to her feet and guides her back to the crowd, “Come along, Myrna, you’re getting too old to be throwing yourself to the ground.” Jaskier raises his hand and feels his exposed ears with a small frown, he must have lost his hat at some point during the battle.

A man comes forward wearing a medallion that shows him to be the alderman of the village. This man also smells of anger towards Jaskier but all he does is silently hold out a bag of coin which Jaskier takes and tucks in his pocket with a solemn nod, untying the bag with the kikimora head in it from Pegasus’s saddle to leave it behind. It’s clear that he will not receive any help from this town for his injuries so he turns to silently leave.

“Good riddance,” he hears someone in the crowd murmur, “Don’t want an elf around.”

Jaskier swallows hard and doesn’t look back, feeling his eyes burn as his hands tighten on Pegasus’s reins. He should be used to this by now, but having gotten to live his life as a human for so many years… it’s difficult switching back to being loathed for his ancestry.

“Thank you!” He hears Myrna call out tearfully, “Thank you, Dandelion! Thank you!”

His lips twitch upwards and he glances back then, raising a hand in farewell before spurring Pegasus into a canter to put distance between himself and the town. He needs to find a camp for the night to take care of his injuries before he passes out from blood loss.

Later, after he’s made camp and found a freshwater source, he addresses the extent of his wounds. His ankle is sprained from getting caught by the armor, already swollen and bruising so he submerges his foot in the cold stream. The back of his left arm and shoulder are still bleeding sluggishly so he washes those clean with water and uses some alcohol to disinfect the injuries, hissing as it burns, before applying a healing salve and bandaging the wounds. The cuts on his shins ended up not being too deep and are already scabbed over so he just carefully washes them with water to get rid of the worst of the dirt and the wound on his chest is also relatively shallow. Mostly bruising there but the cut is deep enough to scar. The worst of the injuries is his face. One of the barbs of the kikimora had caught on his cheek, tearing through the flesh entirely at an awkward angle before cutting across the bridge of his nose and through his eyebrow, which explains why there was so much blood in his eye. He’s gentle while treating these wounds and carefully stitches the cut in his cheek, it’s going to scar horrendously but there’s no reason Jaskier needs to have an even bigger mouth.

After he’s treated his injuries and changed into clean clothes he sharpens his sword in front of a warm fire, resting his ankle and humming softly to himself. While the town wasn’t the most hospitable, at least Myrna was kind. He smiles and winces as it makes his cheek ache, biting his lip to stop himself from smiling more. He can’t stop the little one that sits upon his lips though as he looks up at Pegasus, a gift from Myrna. The kind human woman he’ll never forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 9 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	10. Catching a Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna have the entire map of the Continent memorized by the end of this.
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt stifles the urge to wrinkle his nose as he steps into the tavern of Castel Ravello, a disgusting town in the valley of Toussaint. It used to be a beautiful place, the evellian forests of Caed Myrkvid providing the valley with just enough natural chaos to make everything grow more luscious and green, the people were happier and the towns were wealthy. Then the Great Cleansing occurred and the humans desecrated Caed Myrkvid, deflowering the forest and spilling ancient blood on the roots of elder trees. Since then the valley has been a shithole, a place of poverty and illness and misfortune. But Geralt had heard about a popular bard passing through Castel Ravello so he set his misgivings about the town aside and passed through the mountains, following the Sansretour River into the valley until the clear waters grew murky and floated disease and filth.

The tavern is crowded as most of the inhabitants of Castel Ravello spend their evenings drowning their sorrows in watered down ale, listening to subpar music and ending their days with either tears or blood as fights break out amongst the patrons. The barkeep looks big and mean but despite the foul stench of unwashed bodies packed into the place like sardines, Geralt’s never felt more invisible as not a single eye turns to look at the newcomer. A bard is playing a jaunty tune and Geralt is disappointed to see it’s not Jaskier but rather a small man with a pinched face like a rat and red hair that curls under the edges of his emerald green cap. The bard is dressed too nicely to be a seasoned traveling bard and Geralt spies the emblem of a winery on the bard’s lapel, so this bard is marketing the wines as he travels around. Not unheard of but it’s not very common either.

_“As the weather warms, and spring does turn to summer.  
_ _The dandelions whisper and change their yellow color.  
_ _The grapes ripen and fatten, weighing down their vines,  
_ _It’s up to vinos to pluck them and then change them into wines!”_

Geralt makes his way to the bar and orders an ale and some supper, taking the offered tankard that smells more like water than booze and a bowl of stew that’s so thin it should be called a broth. He then makes his way to a dark corner of the tavern, sitting down to listen as he tucks into his food. He’s been on the road for almost six months now as he searches for Jaskier, keeping in touch with Yennefer via a Xenovox that she enchanted for him. He’ll tell her that his bard isn’t here either after he’s eaten his fill and found a place to sleep, Geralt hasn’t decided if he wants to stay at the inn or try camping. He’s not sure which would be worse. Ciri has started taking basic lute lessons from a bardling in Yennefer’s town at least so that she’ll have some skill when Geralt eventually finds Jaskier.

“...best be on the lookout though.” Geralt overhears a man saying quietly a few tables over. He tilts his head slightly to focus his attention on the conversation, never one to turn down an advance warning.

“I heard there’s a monster on the trail,” a woman replies in a low voice, “Three traders, dead.”

“That was two years ago, Minnie,” the man replies with a shake of his head, “And they were black market dealers. Deserved what was coming to them.”

“I only wonder what happened to the bard,” a second man pipes up, “like you said, happened two years ago now, but I gotta wonder. Such a beautiful lute too, destroyed in the scuffle.”

“Doubt the poor bastard made it far,” Minnie lets out a sigh and sips her ale, “bards aren’t known for their resilience.” Geralt’s jaw clenches as he listens, his fingers tightening on the spoon in his hand as he keeps his eyes focused on the food in front of him. Surely they’re not talking about Jaskier, it could have been any bard. Lots of bards play lutes, exhibit A being the one in the tavern right now.

_“The vino gave a shout of alarm which startled the mighty beast,  
_ _The monster screamed and the vino ran lest he become a feast.  
_ _He called out for a Witcher, but none could come to aid.  
_ _All hope was lost for the vino, until a man came and said,”_

Geralt rubs his forehead irritably as he tries to breathe evenly. There’s too much noise in this tavern between the singing bard who's now playing an annoying riff to up the suspense before continuing the ballad and the jeers of patrons that want to hear the story in the song and the general chatter of other people in the tavern trying to unwind after a long day. Geralt’s about ready to tune the bard out entirely when the bard sings the next verse of the song:

_“'Hello my name is Jaskier, I’m here to help you out  
_ _I heard you have a problem and your wines could turn to stout  
_ _If a beast that guards them isn’t slain, which I can surely do  
_ _But you’ll need to allow a man like me to come to the aid of you!'”_

Geralt’s head snaps up so fast his neck cracks audibly and the occupants of the table next to him look over with raised eyebrows. He ignores them as the lyrics of the bard’s song rerun through his mind. He said the man in the ballad’s name was Jaskier? That’s not a common name, he remembers questioning his bard about it once and Jaskier had refused to indulge as to _why_ he chose Jaskier to be his stage name but did say that he’d eat his left boot the day he met someone else by the same name. So it has to be his Jaskier, but slaying beasts? That doesn’t sound like the bard Geralt once knew at all. He swears under his breath as he realizes he hasn’t been listening to the song and the bard is singing the final chorus. It seems like many of the audience know the song as well as they’re singing along, how long ago was this written?

_“Oh there’s a man of dandelions, with eyes so bright and blue,  
_ _He saved our wine from certain doom, he saved both me and you.  
_ _A Jaskier that can’t be bent, a buttercup that can’t be trod,  
_ _His sword swung true and next we knew..._  
 _That cockatrice was done and gone!”_

A _cockatrice_? Jaskier had fought against, and beat, a cockatrice? Geralt hears a small squeal of protesting metal and looks down to see he’s bent the spoon in his hand from how tightly he was gripping it. With a frown he sets it down in his almost empty bowl and finishes his ale-water to clear his head. If the bard is right and it is Jaskier that defeated a cockatrice… well Geralt can’t help the small swell of pride in his chest at the thought along with a warmth pooling farther down…

Geralt shakes his head to clear it and looks up to see the bard has packed up and left the tavern already. “Fuck,” he murmurs and gets up as well, leaving his table to be cleaned by a waitress as he quickly heads out a side door to try and catch the bard. Thankfully, the man is still in the stables, untying a beautiful dark brown stallion while humming to himself.

“You there,” Geralt says and the bard jumps with a small shriek, wrapping his arms around the neck of the horse who looks unfazed by the man’s antics. The bard peers around the horse and his small eyes grow large as he takes in the imposing sight of the Witcher in the doorway of the stables.

“I-I can assure you that I do _not_ do house calls,” the bard squeaks out, keeping the horse between them, “I apologize, sir Witcher. If you wish to hear more-”

“I don’t,” Geralt growls and steps closer, “Your singing is atrocious. Worse than the squawking of a dying goose.”

The bard’s mouth drops open in indignation then, stepping slightly out from behind the horse to make a defense but when Geralt moves closer the bard leaps back behind his steed once more, “I ap-apologize that my singing wasn’t to your liking, sir Witcher! P-please, what can I do to right this wrong?”

Geralt forces himself not to roll his eyes. If all bards are like this then no wonder Jaskier didn’t like to keep the company of other troubadours. “The song you were singing. The last one. Who’s it about?”

“‘D-Dandelion’?” The bard stammers out, “I-I wrote it myself, sir Witcher. When the winery I work for was saved by a man named Jaskier.”

“Saved from what?” Geralt takes another threatening step forward and the bard nearly bursts into tears.

“A cockatrice! A cockatrice! It had taken residence in our wine cellar so we looked for a Witcher but none were available so we thought we were done for but then a Witcher shows up with Jaskier and says he’s going to take care of the cockatrice and we didn’t believe him at first because why would a Witcher send someone else down instead but he did anyway and then Jaskier came back out with the head of the cockatrice and the eggs were all destroyed and it smelled _foul_ , absolutely horrid down there but at least the wine was saved-”

“Eggs?” Geralt feels almost faint, “He fought a _nesting_ cockatrice? Who was the Witcher with him?”

“I don’t know, sir! I don’t know! I just worked there and wrote the ballad after!” Fat tears roll down the blubbering bards cheeks and Geralt feels a small pang of remorse for scaring the man so badly.

“Alright,” he says a bit more gently, raising his hands to try and placate the bard, “I’m not going to hurt you. Do you know where this Jaskier might have gone?”

The bard looks up at Geralt and sniffles, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, “He was headed towards Cintra last I heard. Looking for something. Dunno what though, that’s all I know about him, I swear!”

Geralt nods and backs up a few paces to give the bard some space, hating the sour scent of terror that rolls off of the man, “Right then. Thank you.” He pulls some coins out of his pocket and tosses them at the bard’s feet, “for the information.” The bard watches him walk out of the stables again before picking up the coin and shoving it in his pockets. Geralt hides in the shadows of the tavern and watches for the bard to leave before sighing and going in to untie Roach, pulling the Xenovox out of his pocket. He was a little perplexed by the magical item at first but understands how it works now, pricking his finger on the pin hidden on the back and letting his blood drop into the center of the metal rose.

“Yennefer,” Geralt says and waits to hear her voice. It takes a few minutes but she eventually answers.

“Geralt, I hope you have good news?” Yennefer’s voice sounds mildly annoyed.

He hums noncommittally, “Not exactly. Why, what’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Yennefer huffs and he can practically see her toss her hair over her shoulder as she folds her arms across her chest, “Ciri’s taken a liking to the bardling is all. The two get on like a house on fire. What’s your sour news?”

Geralt doesn’t have time to process Yennefer’s information before moving forward as he mounts Roach, “Jaskier isn’t in Castel Ravello. A bard in the tavern here was singing a song called ‘Dandelion’, ever heard of it?”

Yennefer sighs as she thinks, “Possibly. I think a bard came through a few days ago singing it. About a winery that got saved from a cocka-something? Ciri and the bardling were singing it nonstop so I ignored the lyrics. Why do you ask?”

“Apparently that song is about a man named Jaskier who kills a nesting cockatrice,” Geralt spurs Roach to start walking, deciding to travel through the night. Maybe he can catch up to Jaskier.

“A nesting one, huh? My my, I’d heard rumors of the White Wolf’s bard developing a bite of his own but didn’t give them any mind,” Yennefer sounds amused, “Did the bard know where Jaskier might be?”

“Headed towards Cintra,” Geralt says gravely and Yennefer grows quiet.

“You don’t think he’s…”

"Going to find Ciri?” he finishes with a sigh, “If he doesn’t know that I’ve already found her then he may think I’ve still decided to not claim my Child Surprise. He did look after her for years.”

“Yes, she brings it up frequently,” Yennefer says dryly, “She’s extremely fond of her ‘birthday bard’.”

“I’ll find him, Yen. Before anything happens to him.” Yennefer stays quiet for a few moments and Geralt wonders if the call has ended, “Yen?”

“Yes?” 

“I…” Geralt hesitates, he can’t admit it to himself yet, there’s no way he can tell her that she was right, “Nevermind. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Alright, stay safe, Witcher,” Yennefer says and he can hear the small smile in her voice.

He nods, “You as well.” He closes the Xenovox and tucks it back in his bag before nudging Roach into a trot along the dark path out of Castel Ravello. 

Geralt heads along the Moriblanc Malheur pass through the Sansmerci mountains out of the Toussaint valley. The sheer rock faces reach high up on either side of him, cliffs and ledges hidden by dense shrubbery that grips the cracks in the granite with deep winding roots for life. Wind blows through the pass from behind him, rustling the shrubs and blowing his hair forward, as though urging him along to move faster. Something puts Geralt on edge, the hairs on his arms standing up as he pauses to listen. 

He hears the shuffling of feet and turns his head just in time to see an arrow embed itself in his shoulder, the iron head slipping right between the gaps in his armor. Geralt scowls and grimaces from the sudden pain in his shoulder, Roach rearing up in surprise with an equine scream as he pulls back on her reins reactively. He tries to grab her mane so he doesn’t fall back but the fine hairs on the horse’s neck slip through his fingers and Geralt falls out of the saddle, landing heavily on the ground and Roach breaks into a gallop without her rider seated upon her. Geralt doesn’t call her back, allowing her to run to safety since he can find her later once he’s taken care of whoever decided it was a good idea to attack a Witcher.

He climbs to his feet and immediately sways, the world spinning and making his stomach churn uncomfortably. The arrow must have been dipped in some sort of sedative, he scowls irritably and tries to grab it so he can remove the damned thing, his hand missing the shaft several times as he reaches. It’s right there yet each time he grabs for it his shoulder seems to grow a hundred meters. He hears the clinking of armor and turns to look, reaching for the dagger in his belt to protect himself but his reactions are slowed by the poison, as he’s already being pushed over and a syringe is jabbed into his neck, something cold being injected beneath his skin. It spreads through his veins like icy fire and his vision darkens as he’s lowered to the ground, looking up at the starry skies above that are blocked out by the black armor that looms over him.

“Nilfgaard,” he groans before his golden eyes slide closed, a low chuckle accompanying his fade to unconsciousness before a gravelly voice says:

“Who ever said you can’t catch a wolf?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 10 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	11. Not Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can check out the entire ballad dedicated to Jaskier's heroic exploits against the cockatrice in the wine cellar here: 
> 
> http://archiveofourown.com/works/23380867
> 
> Enjoy!

Jaskier is humming to himself as he cleans the blade of his knife with a bloodstained cloth, sitting cross legged beside a warm crackling fire in a quiet clearing in the forest along the road to Tigg, a merchant town that sits at a crossroads before entering Cintra. The forest Jaskier currently resides in is nestled in the Schody Marnadalu gap, a large pass in the Gòry Amell mountain range through which the Marnadal River zigzags. He can hear the river nearby, a welcome white noise filling the calm night. 

The flesh of the rabbit he’s cooking sizzles from where it’s suspended over the fire on a wooden spit and Jaskier reaches over, turning the rabbit so it cooks evenly before sharpening his blade with a song on his lips. “ _ Oh, Mr. Rabbit, I’m sorry to have killed you _ ,” he makes up words on the spot to the melody that flowers and blossoms in his chest, “ _ But you’ll make a fine meal as rabbits are often wont to do. Thank you for your service to the vicious food chain _ ,” he tilts his head and flips the dagger over, sharpening the opposite side of the blade evenly, “ _ I made sure your passing was quick and had no pain _ .” 

Jaskier keeps humming the simple melody with a pleased smile as he runs the cloth over the silver edge of the knife once more, looking at his reflection in the polished metal. His face has healed nicely since the kikimora, no complications from infection or accidental tearing of his stitchwork. Just above the thick red scar the kikimora left in his cheek and across his nose and eye there’s the thin scar from his fight with the nekker three and a half years prior. It’s astounding to think of how far he’s come since then, able to take down a kikimora of all things by himself when before he could barely handle two nekkers. Jaskier feels a swell of pride in his skill and abilities as he tucks the dagger beneath the pillow of his bedroll, switching from humming to whistling the tune as he leans back against a rock and lazily turns the spit to roast his rabbit.

Pegasus roams nearby, grazing quietly on the grass in the clearing and Jaskier listens to the swishing of his horse’s tail against long legs and the clopping of hooves on rocks hidden beneath the weeds. He closes his eyes and listens to the chirping of crickets in the brush, the hum of beating wings from moths and beetles, the splashes of fish in the river and the rustling of small animals moving through the bushes. His nose twitches as he suddenly smells the acrid scent of chaos and he opens his eyes, just barely stopping himself from jumping out of his skin at the sight of the exhausted mage now standing before him.

“Yennefer!” Jaskier yelps in surprise, sitting up straighter as he looks up at the raven haired woman. She peers down at him with her violet eyes, dark shadows beneath them standing out starkly against her pale skin. She looks thinner than he recalls her being, her cheeks slightly sunken and her hair hanging limper than usual, despite being curled just as beautifully as always. “I wasn’t expecting a visitor tonight, I would have prepared extra. You look like you could use the food.” It’s an honest observation but she narrows her eyes at him anyway. Her eyes linger on the scars on his face before glancing at his ears which are covered by his hat.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says and her crimson lip curls slightly in disgust, “What’s with the stupid hat?” His hand goes up to his new cap self consciously. He agrees that it’s hideous but he can’t tell her that, what if she also hates elves?

“Oh, it’s what’s in style right now amongst the courts,” he shrugs and averts his gaze from hers, surely giving his lie away as he gets to his feet, “If you’re hungry you’re welcome to sit down and have some of this rabbit. I’ve got extra provisions, I’m happy to share even if it is with a nasty old witch.” He’s gotten his footing again now that he’s recovered from being startled, but it’s still not his best insult.

Yennefer rolls her eyes, “What are you doing in the middle of the Gòry Amell, bard? Are you trying to get yourself killed?” She crosses her arms over her chest as she looks  _ up _ at him. That’s not something she’s used to and Jaskier sees her surprise flit across her face before being hidden once more, “I knew you had a death sentence but I thought surely it would be at the hands of a wild animal, not Nilfgaardian soldiers.”

“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of any soldiers through here,” he shakes his head and puts his hands in his pockets, leaning against a nearby tree, “Nothing very frightening in these parts anymore, even at this moment. I’m afraid you’re not all that scary, Yen. Oh, I’m sure to many you are, but not to me.” He smiles teasingly at her and she continues to watch him with an unreadable expression.

“Why are you taller, Jask?” She asks abruptly, “People don’t grow six inches in a couple years. And your hair is blond now. Have you shoved wedges in your shoes and painted your face? Are you that desperate to be beautiful?”

Jaskier bites his tongue as his teasing smile drops and he looks away again, “If you’re only here for biting words, I’m afraid I don’t have many right now. I  _ was _ having a rather pleasant evening before my campsite was soured with vermin.” 

“Where’s your lute, bard?” Yennefer asks next, stepping closer to him, “Seems odd for a musician to be without his instrument, wouldn’t you agree? I’d think it’s rather difficult to make music without the thing.”

Jaskier sighs and crosses his own arms, lowering his head to rub his eyes, “Yennefer…” suddenly the cap sat atop his head has been swiped and he looks up in surprise to see the mage holding the ugly accessory, her eyes wide as she sees his pointed ears. “Yennefer… it’s not what it looks like.”

“It’s not?” Her eyes meet his, her shock turning to a scowl, “Because what it  _ looks like _ is that you’re an  _ elf _ , Jaskier! And you’ve never thought to tell me!”

“Well… it’s half what it looks like?” He hedges with an awkward chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck, “I did  _ think _ to tell you, Yen. I just wasn’t sure…”

“If I would kill you? Jaskier, you can smell that I’m part elf,” her scowl darkens angrily as she throws the cap on the ground, “Why on earth would I want to kill you because you have pointy ears? There are many, much better reasons I’d like to kill you than that!”

“Great!” Jaskier huffs, his hands balling into fists at his sides, “That’s truly wonderful news, Yennefer. Thank you for taking this so well! I’ve lived my life  _ terrified _ since the Great Cleansing when 99% of my family was murdered because they dared want more for themselves after humans took from them, but let’s make this about you!”

“Oh, so it should be about you?” Yennefer shouts, her violet eyes narrow, “That’s right, everything should always be about Jaskier. The whole world  _ revolves _ around Jaskier and his wants and needs. Nevermind Yennefer or Geralt or who the fuck else! If Jaskier could be in trouble then we all need to rush to his aid!”

Jaskier’s jaw clenches and he takes a step forward, waving his hand as he yells, “I didn’t call you here, Yennefer! I didn’t wish upon a star for you to come! If you don’t want to kill me for being an elf then why do you care so much?”

“BECAUSE I’M EVELLIAN, TOO!” She screams and the campfire flares upwards, charring the rabbit and the spit. Jaskier glances at the display of magic but doesn’t back down, glaring at the mage as he waits for her to continue. “I would have liked to have known there were still others like me! That I wasn’t  _ alone _ , Jaskier!”

“You still are,” he says coldly, drawing himself up to his full height, “You and I aren’t the same, Yennefer. We haven’t had the same experiences. I was  _ wanted _ , and people took my family away from me.” He knows he’s making some low blows but he can’t find it in himself to care, “Just because one of your grandparents had an affair with an elf doesn’t mean that you and I are the same.”

Yennefer is stunned into silence at the hostility shown to her by the man before her. This isn’t Jaskier. This isn’t the bard that followed Geralt around like a lost puppy, the man who had so much empathy he cried over a fallen tree once. “What happened to you, Jaskier?” She asks softly, her voice sad and pitying.

His eyes flash with anger as he growls at her, “I grew up. That’s what you and Geralt wanted, isn’t it?”

His words cut deep and he sees hurt in her eyes as she looks at him. She takes a few moments to compose herself before continuing, “Why didn’t you ever tell him? Why didn’t you ever tell  _ me _ ?”

Jaskier barks a laugh and it’s a hollow sound as he sits down on the same rock he was lounging against earlier, “We aren’t exactly  _ friends _ , Yennefer. Maybe we’re not enemies but you’ve always made your thoughts of me abundantly clear.”

She bites her lip gently before kneeling down in front of him, folding her hands in her lap as she looks into the fire. “I’m sorry, Jaskier. For treating you the way I have. I’ve considered you a friend for a long time now and it saddens me that you haven’t seen me as one to you.” 

Jaskier looks up at her and thinks quietly for a while before sighing and running a hand over his hair, pushing some of the loose strands back off of his face, “Why are you here, Yen? It’s been over two years since I saw you last.”

“Can’t a friend just want to catch up?” She says with a thin smile as she looks up at him. He looks unconvinced though and she shakes her head, looking at a point over his ear so she at least appears to be making eye contact. “It’s Geralt.”

Jaskier’s heart wrenches and his hands tighten on his knees, his fingers teasing the seams of his pants as he watches her warily. He can’t smell her emotions, mages are too clustered by chaos to be scented, but if he didn’t know better he’d say she looks worried. “What about him?” He startles himself with how forced his voice is, his jaw clenched tightly.

“He’s been taken by Nilfgaard,” Yennefer sighs and sits back on her heels, rubbing the tender skin beneath her eyes tiredly, “I’ve been tracking you for a few days now trying to find you.”

He shouldn’t get involved, he should stay out of this. This isn’t Jaskier’s fight. “Why’s Nilfgaard interested in him?” He hears himself asking and he internally swears. He already knows the answer, the-

“The Child Surprise,” Yennefer looks up at him again, “He found her. Two and a half years ago. They’ve been staying with me in a town in Lyria, I’m the mayor of it.”

“Congrats,” he murmurs instinctively and she nods her thanks.

“I’ve been teaching her how to become a mage. How to harness chaos and use it to her advantage. Cirilla is incredibly bright, a very fast learner.” Jaskier nods in agreement as Yennefer continues, “But she was struggling with the practical application of her studies. The control over her chaos wasn’t there. We discovered she can control it through music.”

“That’s wonderful, Yen,” Jaskier says quietly. He feels an odd sort of way as she tells him about this life that she and Geralt have built with Geralt’s Child Surprise. “I’m still not sure why you’re here though.”

Yennefer is quiet as she gathers her thoughts, tapping her fingers on her thighs, “I’m not comfortable leaving Ciri for long periods of time. Already I’d like to get back to her now that I’ve found you and I’ve only been gone for three days. I’m afraid of Nilfgaard finding her in Lyria.” Jaskier thinks he knows where this is going, and he’s not sure he likes it. His stomach turns nervously as he lets her speak, holding his tongue even though he wants to tell her no immediately. She sighs and rubs her temples gently, “Jaskier… I need your help rescuing Geralt.”

He chews on the inside of his cheek, closing his eyes to think as he pushes down the rising bile in his throat. Geralt sent him away the last time he saw the Witcher. Jaskier’s forcefully avoided thinking about him for years now since, from his side of things, Geralt didn’t want Jaskier’s friendship. He didn’t want Jaskier’s companionship. He was tired of Jaskier being a burden to him and willing to let the bard perish instead of being near him for even a second longer. As much as Jaskier wants to just say ‘no’, he instead finds himself asking, “Why should I?”

Yennefer looks surprised by the question, clearly expecting either a long winded response or a flat yes or no. She thinks about her answer, trying to find the best response to get him to help her. “Ciri needs him,” she says finally, “She doesn’t feel safe without Geralt around, and without feeling secure she cannot grow into the mage, into the woman, she can be.”

Jaskier is quiet as he thinks, drumming his fingers on his knee methodically which Yennefer notices so she decides to sweeten the deal. “Also, I’ll buy you a new lute.”

He looks over at her in surprise before finally nodding, “Alright, I’ll help you. Please tell me you already have a plan.”

“I… have a sort of plan,” she admits as she climbs to her feet, brushing the dirt off of her dress, “It’s more than no plan so it’ll do for now. We can finish creating a plan tomorrow.” Jaskier sighs and nods, getting up as well and rolling up his bedroll, tidying up his camp before dousing the flames of his campfire.

“I suppose it will have to do,” he rolls his eyes good-naturedly and stops when he notices Yennefer staring at him, “What, is there something on my face?”

“No, no, I just… I didn’t know elf eyes glowed,” she shakes her head and he looks away from her self-consciously. He wishes he could hide that, and usually he can if there’s any sort of light but the moment he’s in total darkness the blue of his iris is still visible in a thin ring around his blown out pupils as they glow faintly. “It’s not a bad thing, Jask,” she adds quickly and his eyes flick over to her when he feels her warm hand against his cheek, “just not something that’s mentioned in any books.” He nods slightly and she pats his cheek before pulling her hand away and creating a portal, the sharp scent of ozone filling the clearing from the chaos.

Jaskier leads Pegasus through the portal by the reins as he follows Yennefer, the portal leading them to a robust cottage outside of a small town. There’s a lamp lit in the window but otherwise the home is dark and Yennefer shows him to the stable so he can tie up Pegasus alongside her pure black Fresian. Once he’s finished caring for his horse he follows her inside quietly, waiting in the kitchen while she checks to make sure that Ciri is asleep before she prepares them both some tea.

They sit down on the couches in front of the warm hearth and Jaskier crosses his legs as he sips his hot tea. Yennefer swirls it in her mug, looking deep into the contents of the drink as she thinks and searches for the answers to the universe.

“Careful there, you’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm,” Jaskier says lightly and Yennefer looks up, giving him a small smile.

“Would it help or hurt if I told you he got captured while he was looking for you?”

Jaskier blinks as his soft smile vanishes and he swallows thickly, taking another sip of his tea before speaking, “Yennefer…”

“It probably makes you feel bad, huh?” She pushes forward, “I’m sorry, I probably shouldn’t have mentioned it. But he was, and it’s kind of important as to why.” Jaskier’s mouth feels like someone filled it with cotton and he doesn’t speak as he watches her, afraid of what the reason could be. It better not be because the bastard finally figured out that he- “Ciri needs someone to teach her music.”

Jaskier feels his shoulders slump in relief as he deflates, all the tension flowing out of him, “Oh, oh right. Yeah, sure I can teach her.”

“I didn’t even ask you,” Yennefer raises an eyebrow at him, “Maybe I was going to ask if you could recommend me to someone? She’s currently seeing a bardling in town for learning to play the lute, but the singing and songwriting talents are yet to be honed.” Yennefer narrows her eyes slightly at him, “What did you think I was going to say?”

“Nothing,” Jaskier says a bit too quickly, his cheeks heating up just a touch, “I didn’t think anything.”

“No, no, I’d like to know, Jask,” she shakes her head and sets her tea aside, leaning her elbows on her knees to lean forward, “What reason did you think Geralt had for looking for you?”

Jaskier frowns at the phrasing of the question, looking down into his mug, “I thought perhaps to apologize? For the way he spoke to me the last time we saw each other.” He speaks softly and there’s a touch of something in his voice that Yennefer recognizes.

She hums and leans back again, “Anything else? You’re not telling me the full truth, bard.”

Jaskier glances up at her sharply with a slight scowl, “I don’t suppose it’s any of your business, witch.” He raises his mug to stop himself from speaking more, turning his face away towards the hearth. Yennefer has gotten all the information she’s needed though, satisfied with his reaction.

If she needled enough, she’s sure she could get Jaskier to do anything to save Geralt. She’d have to make it seem like it was Jaskier’s idea of course, the elf is incredibly stubborn still and very angry with the Witcher, but beneath all the hurt and bitterness she can see that Jaskier is still very much in love with Geralt.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier’s voice brings her out of her thoughts and she looks up at him.

“What for?”

“The way I spoke to you at my campsite,” he turns his gaze to meet hers, “It wasn’t fair of me to take my anger out on you the way I did. You were upset because you’re looking for someplace to belong, and are hoping it might be amongst elves. It would be wrong of me to take that hope from you just because I am hurting. So, I’m sorry.”

Yennefer tilts her head slightly with a soft smile, “I forgive you.” Perhaps he isn’t so different from how he used to be after all. Maybe he’s more Jaskier now than ever before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 11 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	12. A Complex Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW Torture
> 
> Enjoy!

When Geralt awakens it feels like someone has left a horse sitting on his chest. Every breath is a conscious effort that he has to make, otherwise he’ll die from asphyxiation. Slowly, breathing becomes easier and he becomes aware of the rest of his lifeless body. His limbs are heavy and unresponsive and the room he’s in is pitch black until he realizes his eyes are simply closed so he fights and struggles and sweat beads up on his brow but he’s able to force his eyes to open just a little bit. Disappointingly, the room he’s in is still quite dark. 

There’s a small amount of light streaming in from a tiny window at the very top of his cell, maybe 20 centimeters long by 10 centimeters tall, and outside of the window he can hear the voices of Nilfgaardian soldiers as they chatter in the streets. Their armor clinks and clanks as they walk and the hooves of horses clop along on cobblestones, wooden wheels rattling through the streets behind the horses. Occasionally he can hear the crack of a whip to spur a steed on or a peel of laughter as the soldiers tell each other jokes to pass the time. Whatever sedative they used on Geralt did its job though, as he has no idea how long he’s been out and is still struggling to even focus on any specific sense.

His smell is muddled by the scents of piss and feces in the dungeons, the musty blanket of old blood covering everything else except for the occasional sharp spike of fear when he hears a Nilfgaardian walk through the line of cells. His touch is still numbed, he can barely wiggle his toes let alone feel the cuffs that he sees are around his ankles. He doesn’t feel cold, despite having his shirt and shoes removed, and his fingers are starting to tingle a little bit as he continues to try to shift them and get blood flowing back through them since they’re suspended above his head. All he can taste is his own foul breath and bile, like he threw up in his sleep. Thankfully it either wasn’t in the cell or they cleaned it up for him. Sight is accounted for, but he can’t open his eyes more than a squint, and his hearing is suppressed. It’s as though someone put pillows over his ears, muffling the world around him. He can hear his own heartbeat just fine, but the sounds on the street he has to strain to pick out.

Geralt has no idea how long he’s waiting, drifting in and out of consciousness, before he opens his eyes and there’s suddenly a man standing in front of him. He tries not to let himself look startled, but he can’t stop the small jolt of alarm at being snuck up on while in such a vulnerable state. The Nilfgaardian smiles, and it’s a cruel and wicked upturn of his lips that perfectly pairs with the icy slate gray eyes in the man’s sunken face. Geralt doesn’t like this man once bit.

“Good evening, Witcher,” the man says and Geralt recognizes his gravelly voice as the one from his capture. Geralt’s face twists into a scowl as he glares at the man who assaulted him, “I hope you’re feeling well.”

“As well as I can, all things considered,” Geralt sasses and the Nilfgaardian’s smile widens.

“Oh, I do love a bit of spunk. Can’t wait to snuff that right out of you,” he sighs happily. Geralt takes this moment to look around the cell. Other than the man in front of him, there’s a woman soldier by the door, her visor covering the top half of her face and her hand resting on the pommel of her sword. On a table just outside the cell are Geralt’s things, his shirt and his armor neatly folded and stacked along with any weapons and anything that had been in his pockets.

“Geralt, may I call you Geralt?” The Nilfgaardian asks and before Geralt can reply he plows on, “I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here. And I’d be happy to share that knowl-”

“Not really,” Geralt interrupts in a bored tone, “You want to know where the Princess of Cintra is and you know she was my Child Surprise so I most likely know where she is.”

The Nilfgaardian splutters slightly and some color rises to his cheeks, “Well, I see you’ve saved us both some time and heartache as I won’t have to describe how Calanthe screamed when we found her and tried to get the information from her.”

Geralt frowns, his brow furrowing as his stomach sinks, “She leapt to her death during the fall of Cintra.”

“She leapt, oh yes,” the man nods, “But she didn’t die. Far from it. She’s dead now though, of course, no use keeping her around if she couldn’t help us.” He shrugs and yawns softly as Geralt’s scowl returns. “You should have heard her scream though. Kept hoping that some sort of magic would happen if she hollered loud enough. Just like her little Pavetta, and just like we suspect the cub?” The man looks up at Geralt with raised eyebrows but Geralt doesn’t betray any information in his expression.

“Come now, Geralt,” the man smiles and walks closer, patting the Witcher on the ribs amicably, “There’s no reason to keep this information from us. You’re a Witcher, you have no place in the squabbles of man. Just tell us where the girl is and we’ll let you go so you can go back on your Witchery ways.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Geralt snarls. The man looks unfazed and simply steps back.

“I do ask you reconsider, I’ll only ask nicely one more time, Geralt.”

“How come you’re allowed to know my name, but I’m not given the honor of yours?” Geralt growls. Maybe he can stall the man long enough to figure something out, or at least get feeling back in his fingers again.

“William Hedgetz, at your service,” the Nilfgaardian gives him a low bow before straightening up again, this time with a long and thin knife in hand, “Now I’ll ask once more, Geralt. Where is the girl?”

“You should know already.”

Hedgetz’s eyes widen and his eyebrows raise slightly, “I should?”

“Oh yes,” Geralt nods gravely before delivering one of Jaskier’s favorite insults, “She’s fucking your mother.”

Hedgetz’s face darkens and the knife has carved a deep line along Geralt’s ribs before he even saw the blade was moving, hot pain flaring up beneath the split skin as blood bubbles up and flows down Geralt’s pale torso. “That’s very rude of you, Geralt. Weren’t you ever taught any manners?”

“Never saw a need for them,” He grunts out as Hedgetz lodges the pommel of the dagger in Geralt’s gut. That’s going to bruise something bad since the decorative knife has a wicked looking diamond on the end of it.

“Oh yes, you always had your bard with you to handle civilized company, didn’t you?” Hedgetz speaks evenly, as though the two of them are just holding a casual conversation, while the blade slices through Geralt’s bicep painfully. Geralt would rather they didn’t mention Jaskier but he won’t give them the added ammunition of knowing that his bard is a sore spot.

“Not going to answer this time, Geralt? No more witty remarks?” Hedgetz tilts his head before lifting Geralt’s chin with the tip of the dagger, “Tell me where the girl is, Witcher.”

“Fuck you.”

Hedgetz tuts and shakes his head in mock disappointment, “And here I thought you were a… how does the stupid song go? A ‘friend to humanity’? Well, you’re certainly not acting like much of a friend to me.” He flicks the knife and the blade slices along Geralt’s collarbone. He’s going for the areas with the most delicate skin that have the least amount of veins and arteries, Geralt realizes. To inflict the most pain with the least chance of him bleeding out. As much as Geralt dislikes this man, he has to admit that it’s very clever of the Nilfgaardian.

Hours are spent like that, with Hedgetz asking again and again where Ciri is and Geralt replying in various ways of saying ‘go fuck yourself’ which results in more targeted pain on the Witcher’s body. He loses track of how many cuts he sustains, how many bruises are blooming on his skin, how many times he’s said the word ‘fuck’. It all blurs together in one big painful experience until Hedgetz is satisfied for the day and leaves, disappointed to not have gotten any information out of Geralt. 

Geralt sags in his bonds the moment the soldiers have left, letting himself relax so his body can knit itself back together. He’s certain that all but the deepest of cuts will be at least healed over with fresh pink skin in the morning and the bruises will have lightened to yellow. In two days he’ll be a blank canvas for Hedgetz to work with all over again. The thought brings a bitter taste to Geralt’s tongue but he can ignore that for now so long as Ciri is safe.

It must be early morning now as the light in his cell from the window is weak and Hedgetz had said ‘good evening’ when he first greeted Geralt. How long has Geralt been here? It bothers him that he doesn’t know how long he was asleep for, usually he has a general idea. Geralt closes his eyes and imagines a warm hand slipping into his, his fingers lacing with those of another. His chest aches as he lets his mind wander and fantasize about something so simple as holding the hand of another. 

He imagines himself looking up to meet the eyes of the person whose strong hand is in his own, golden eyes reaching merry cornflower blue ones. The ghost of imaginary lips passes over Geralt’s cheek and he pretends he hears laughter that sounds like the most musical of bells ringing. He sighs slightly, clenching his hands into fists and frowning as he shakes his head to clear away the daydream. He needs to figure out a way out of here if he ever wants the chance for his imagination to become reality.

Hedgetz returns and they do the same song and dance with various tools for days. A knife one day, a hook the next. Sewing pins, a wrench, a dulled fencing foil, a riding crop. One day he brings in a bucket of salted water to pour over Geralt’s open wounds agonizingly slowly and still Geralt refuses to tell Hedgetz where Ciri is. Hedgetz is running out of patience, evidently used to his prisoners breaking far sooner than Geralt is willing to. In fact, Geralt’s gotten more information out of Hedgetz in the days of his capture than he’s sure the Nilfgaardian even realizes. Geralt’s under the city of Cintra in the dungeons of the castle, and isn’t that ironic considering Calanthe imprisoned him here just before the fall of Cintra. Nlifgaard has lost quite a bit of the territory it won after the fall of Cintra, various northern countries either fighting back or rebellions being staged against the southern continent. And he learns that, with Ciri’s gift, Nilfgaard wants to reclaim the lost land and also surge north into Redania, Rivia, and Lyria. 

Hedgetz enters his cell one day with a woman who reeks of enough chaos to overpower the stench of the dungeons. Geralt immediately recoils out of instinct from the woman who commands more chaos than any person could ever need, her small frame deceptive for the amount of power she wields. At least Yennefer looks the part.

“Good morning, Geralt,” Hedgetz greets like he does every time he enters Geralt’s cell, “I’d like you to meet Fringilla Vigo. A dedicated servant of Nilgaard and an extremely talented sorceress.” Fringilla… Fringilla… why does that name sound familiar?

“Charmed,” Fringilla murmurs and nods her head. Though she acts demure with Hedgetz by her side, Fringilla’s brown eyes are sharp and calculating as she sizes up Geralt and he resists the urge to squirm under her gaze.

“Mistress Vigo is here to take a little walk around the old wood block,” Hedgetz smiles pleasantly as he raps his knuckles none too gently on Geralt’s skull. Geralt scowls at him as the meaning of his words sinks in and he feels his stomach drop. The sorceress is here to read his mind, to find out exactly where Ciri is against his will. He needs to think of something to occupy his thoughts so thoroughly that she won’t be able to wade through the flood to find any of his other memories. But what to think of?

“Worry not, Witcher,” Fringilla smiles coldly as she approaches, raising her hands and reaching for his temples, “This will only hurt a lot.”

The moment her fingers touch his temples, pain explodes in his head making his eyes shut tightly and his mouth drop open while he screams. He needs to focus at the same time though, fighting the scraping of her inside of his mind to push one singular thought forward. It’s simple enough that he can focus on one word, but that one word has so many complexities behind it that he’s certain she’ll never be able to get to anything of substance in his brain. Through the haze of pain he feels his hands ball into fists as he focuses and offers up to her one word: _Jaskier_.

Immediately her feelers are blocked by a wave of associated thoughts and feelings. The blue of his eyes, the pink of his lips, how his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way his hair starts to curl when it absorbs the oils he uses to shape it. The timbre of his voice, the sounds of his laughter, his spluttering indignation, his quick wit, his sharp mind, his foolish nature. Every time they’ve shared a bed, every touch of their hands, every shared glance, every knowing look, every inside joke and telling smile and little wink that Geralt knows is just for him. Jaskier is more than just a thought bubble in Geralt’s mind, he’s an entire web woven by the most delicate of spiders.

Fringilla pulls her hands away with a small enraged scream from between clenched teeth, glaring up at the Witcher who looks dazed by the use of intense magic on him. “The fool knows how to stop me from seeing everything in his mind.”

“What? How is that possible?” Hedgetz demands and grabs Fringilla’s arm. She shakes him off and turns her glare on him.

“Don’t touch me, Hedgetz,” She snarls and steps back, crossing her arms, “He’s in love. The Witcher used the object of his affections as a mental block since the man’s such a complex thought in the Witcher’s mind.”

Hedgetz sighs and rubs his eyes, “A Witcher in love. Next you’ll be telling me pigs can fly. Well do you know who it is?”

“Jaskier of Oxenfurt.”

Geralt perks up slightly at the sound of Jaskier’s name, not having been paying as much attention when they were talking as he tried to recover his wits from the mental assault.

“The famous bard?” Hedgetz raises his eyebrows in intrigue, “No one’s seen him in years.”

“Well, the Witcher has been in love with him for going on two decades now,” Fringilla shakes her head, “Fell for the bard while they traveled together.”

“Unrequited?”

“Apparently.”

“Interesting,” Hedgetz hums, “Thank you, Fringilla. That will be all.” Fringilla nods and disappears from the cell, leaving Hedgetz and Geralt alone.

Geralt finally is collected enough to look up at Hedgetz with a scowl, but the Nilfgaardian smiles and pulls something out of his pocket. A worn black leather bound book with pages sticking out of it like they’d been torn out and shoved back in so they wouldn’t get lost. Jaskier’s songbook.

“I was wondering who this might have belonged to,” Hedgetz looks at it thoughtfully, “I apologize, but you don’t strike me as the poetic type, Geralt.”

“Put that down,” Geralt finds himself snarling. If Hedgetz wasn’t suspicious about the book before, he certainly is now.

Hedgetz grins at Geralt, “No need for hostility, Geralt. Your bardic friend is truly talented. So many of these songs and poems could bring a man to tears. In fact, I get the feeling that many of them have. I’ve only had a chance to skim some of them but, Melitele above, some of these are just so heartbreaking. Some of them long for somebody to just hold the author, the writer just aching to be loved in return. I hope that doesn’t sound too familiar, Geralt. After all, I can’t imagine the bard was writing about _you_.”

Geralt makes sure his scowl stays in place as he glares at Hedgetz even though the words cut him to his core. It’s not that he hasn’t thought those same things himself, it’s just that hearing someone else voice them makes his worries all the more real. How could Jaskier have ever written any of those love poems about Geralt? He’s a fool to believe otherwise.

“I might have to give this little book a read,” Hedgetz smiles and tucks the songbook back in his pocket, “I’m so very intrigued to see what else Jaskier of Oxenfurt might have written in it, after all, I hear a bard’s songbook is as sacred to them as a King’s whore. Who knows what secrets Jaskier’s squirreled away in here.” Hedgetz pats his pocket and leaves the cell, waving to Geralt as he does. “I’m going to cut our visit short today then, Geralt. I hope you understand. I wish to learn more about this Jaskier before visiting you tomorrow.”

Geralt can’t stop himself now, blurting out words tinged with desperation, “Leave him out of this!”

Hedgetz pauses and turns to look at Geralt, “Will tell me where the girl is then, Witcher?”

“I…” Geralt hesitates. He can’t betray Ciri, even if it puts Jaskier in danger. Jaskier would never forgive Geralt if the Witcher gave up his Child Surprise to protect his bard, “No.”

“How disappointing,” Hedgetz shakes his head and leaves the cell, locking the door behind him. 

There’s no way Geralt can keep denying it to himself, he’s in love with Jaskier. Despite the wave of relief that washes over him from allowing himself to embrace his feelings, he also feels overwhelming dread. Because he’s in love with Jaskier; and Nilfgaard knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 12 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	13. Kind of a Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW Minor Suicidal Ideation
> 
> I'm ahead of the game, ya'll. Wrote chapters 10-12 in one day so now I'm writing ahead of time and drafting each chapter to post each day. Nailing it!
> 
> Enjoy!

He’s tossing and turning in his sleep, phantom hands around his throat as a dead woman snarls at him about his monstrous nature. His skin is burning this time, his body on fire as the man collapses on top of him and his name is called out tauntingly, echoing around the dark clearing as he burns because he’s on _fire_ and he’s dying and it hurts but he deserves it because he’s a monster. He’s no better than the very lives he snuffed out so willingly just to get away, just to secure his own freedom, just because he was _scared_.

“... _Jaskier_ …”

He wails and pushes at the hands on him, scratching at the vice cutting off his air. He needs his voice and this is worse than death, to be teased with the threat of being mute forever, unable to sing sing _sing_. His arm hurts and his skin burns and he feels like he’s on fire but there’s no flames, the hands gone but invisible smoke filling his lungs and removing the oxygen from the air.

“... _Jaskier!”_

And he’s dying, he’s dying, he’s dying, but why isn’t he dead yet? Why won’t this end? He never knew you could be on the brink of death, his toes scrabbling at the edge of the precipice that skirts alongside the darkness of finality. A balancing act of the highest caliber and Jaskier’s never been the best acrobat. If he slips, he dies, so he must not fall but the wind is strong and he is so _tired_ and he’s a monster and maybe it’s for the best since he’s dying anyway-

“Jaskier!”

Jaskier gasps as he awakens suddenly, sitting up slightly and looking around in surprise. He feels cold and clammy and raises a hand to his face to feel a cool sheen of sweat on his brow, his heart thundering in his chest as his breaths come fast and shallow. His eyes meet pale blue ones and it takes him a moment to recognize who they belong to, his panic calming as he observes the concern on the face of the Princess of Cintra.

“Hello, little cub,” he whispers with a smile and Ciri lets out a breath of relief before throwing her arms around him in a tight hug, tucking her head into the crook of his neck. She’s shaking as he sits up and wraps her in his own arms, rubbing her back soothingly when he recognizes the shoulder of his shirt dampening beneath her face.

“I haven’t seen anyone familiar in so long,” Ciri hiccups and Jaskier smiles, running his fingers through her straight blonde hair. His arm is pink and raw from rubbing against the coarse fabric of the couch he slept on, not having been comfortable taking Geralt’s unoccupied bed.

“What am I then, a stranger?” Yennefer deadpans as she prepares breakfast over the hearth and Ciri laughs tearily, shaking her head and pulling back a small amount to look at Jaskier.

“You look so different, birthday bard, and yet like you’ve hardly aged a day,” she says softly, reaching up to touch the scars on his face and run her fingers along his long pointed ears. He resists the urge to flinch, allowing her to explore his unfamiliar familiarity with her curious touch.

“You’ve grown a lot, little cub,” he teases and tucks her hair back behind her ear, “How old are you now, a hundred and five? You’re looking great for being over a century.”

Ciri giggles, her tears drying up as he speaks lightly with her and she shakes her head, “Nearly sixteen, Jask.”

“A woman already! My gods, how the time does fly when you’re having fun. Although I’m not sure how much fun you could have with the wicked witch hanging over you,” he grins and glances at Yennefer who rolls her eyes with a shake of her head, “I doubt she knows the meaning of fun.”

“I am plenty fun, elf,” Yennefer says dryly as she stirs the porridge methodically.

Jaskier nods sagely but makes a face behind Yennefer’s back that Ciri covers her mouth to smile at. Yennefer can’t deny that it’s nice to see Ciri smile like this, it’s been a long time since she’s seen the girl laugh. Geralt and herself aren’t the best with children so the only times they see her giggle or smile is with the bardling.

“Don’t think I don’t know you’re mocking me,” Yennefer adds with a small smile of her own and Jaskier’s eyes widen as he looks away with a faux innocent expression.

“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you speak,” he grins and stands up to help Yennefer dish up for breakfast, preparing three bowls of porridge and adding some fruits and sugar to freshen up the simple meal. The three of them sit together at the table, Jaskier and Ciri teasing one another while Yennefer sits quietly and eats and thinks. 

Despite the elf looking distracted by the princess, Yennefer knows Jaskier’s mind is running a mile a minute, thinking of plans on how to rescue Geralt while also keeping Ciri’s mind off the dire situation at hand. Yennefer thinks of how they should have tried to find Jaskier ages ago, he would have brought a much needed lightness to the cottage and perhaps would have helped maintain some emotional balance in the homestead.

“So, Cirilla, tell me of your studies with Yen,” Jaskier asks and Yennefer tunes back into the conversation at the mention of her name. Ciri’s face pinches in distaste, not at the lessons themselves but at her exceedingly slow results.

“The studies themselves are fine, I guess,” Ciri sighs and glares at her porridge with such ire that Yennefer half expects the damp food to burst into flame, “But I can’t do magic very well. I can’t harness chaos the way she can.”

“It’s a long and slow process, little cub,” Jaskier smiles with a shrug, “Mages aren’t made overnight. I don’t have much experience with mages aside from Yennefer and the odd, slightly less crazy magic user here and there, but they all share the same story.”

“Which is?” Yennefer arches an eyebrow at him curiously. He’s not seriously implying that all mages were hunchback freaks with a sense for chaos before having power beaten into them, is he?

Jaskier meets her gaze and holds it firm, “They come from nothing and end up something.” A metaphor, how fitting. Yennefer feels her expression soften as she nods and tears her eyes away from Jaskier’s intense gaze.

“He’s right. Even mages of the most noble blood are on even standing with mages that come from filth when it comes to their schooling.”

“What about you?” Ciri asks him and he looks startled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you’re an elf,” she says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “Yennefer says that all elves have a sense for chaos. Can you control it?”

Jaskier presses his lips together as he thinks about his answer, picking his words carefully. He doesn’t want to lie, but the truth is more complicated than he cares to explain right now. “She’s correct, all elves have a sense for chaos. We can all feel it ebbing and flowing around us, shaping the world and fueling the universe. Some elves are able to harness it, similar to mages. Others are able to use signs like Witchers.”

“What about you, though?” Ciri pushes her hair back off of her face, looking up at Jaskier curiously.

“I… can technically use magic, yes,” he nods cautiously, “but I don’t have a natural talent for it. It is something I was… something I learned. Without the innate ability to harness chaos I cannot control the price, and even small spells can leave me fatigued.”

“The price is you,” Ciri says quietly and Jaskier hums in confirmation, “Do you ever do magic then?”

“Not unless I absolutely have to,” he shakes his head somberly, “I avoid using magic if I can. I have no way of knowing which time will be my last.” There’s a pregnant pause around the table, Ciri looking like she wants to ask more questions but Yennefer gives the princess a look that makes the inquiries stagnate and fizzle on her tongue.

“Jaskier…” Ciri finally starts, after several long minutes of silence, “Would you be able to teach me music?”

He can’t stop the briefly pained expression that flits across his face before it’s gone again, replaced by pensive thought. “I told Yennefer I will help you learn. Right now, though, we have a more pressing issue.” He looks over at the mage who is watching him with her keen violet eyes. Yennefer doesn’t say anything about how he deflects the question on his ability to teach Cirilla and nods instead.

“As you know, Ciri, Geralt is missing,” Yennefer says seriously and Ciri sobers with a nod, “Roach returned riderless nearly a fortnight ago. I was able to find out who attacked him by searching her memories.” Yennefer shudders slightly, she hates looking in the minds of animals. Their thoughts are disjointed, just fragments of emotions and feelings, but they sometimes have vital information locked in their memories and this was one of those times. “Nilfgaard has captured Geralt, and so I have also gotten Jaskier to help us rescue him.”

Ciri glances at Jaskier and then looks at Yennefer, the cogs in her brain clearly turning as she thinks, “No offense but… how can a bard help us rescue Geralt?” Jaskier chuckles softly, his lips turning up in a wry smile as Yennefer looks over at him.

“Care to explain what your profession has been the past few years, bard?” Yennefer raises her eyebrows and Jaskier shakes his head slightly.

“Not much of a bard, I’m afraid. My lute was destroyed several years ago now and, at the time, I couldn’t afford a new one. The only other thing I was good for was bed-hopping if you catch my meaning,” he winks and Ciri looks disgusted, “Yeah, me too. I wasn’t interested in that. So I took up ah… a small amount of monster hunting.”

“Is that where your scars came from?” Ciri asks and Jaskier nods, running his fingers over them.

“Kikimora,” he indicates the larger and more gruesome of his facial scarring before touching the thin line, “And a nekker.”

“Do you have others?”

“I do, but usually I request a drink be bought first before I undress for anybody,” he teases and Ciri pretends to gag while Yennefer snorts. He grins before continuing with the conversation, turning back to Yennefer, “You said last night that you have ‘part of a plan’. What is it?”

Before Yennefer can reply Ciri interrupts her with a growing grin, “So the song _is_ about you!”

“What song?” Jaskier asks and Yennefer groans.

“‘Dandelion’!”

Jaskier is only more confused by Ciri’s answer, “What?”

“Letra said that she doubted that the Jaskier in the song was the same as my birthday bard, after all a bard could never kill a cockatrice, but I said how common is the name Jaskier anyway? And we ended up arguing over the commonality of names but she got me thinking about whether there were more people named Jaskier-” Ciri rambles and Jaskier looks at Yennefer questioningly.

“Who’s Letra? What song is she talking about?”

“Letra’s the bardling Ciri takes lessons from,” Yennefer explains, “‘Dandelion’ is a silly ballad about wine or something.” She waves her hand dismissively so they can try to return to talking about Geralt’s rescue but Ciri interjects.

“It’s not about _wine_ , Yennefer,” Ciri says heatedly, “It’s a wonderful tale about you,” she points at Jaskier, “Saving a winery from a cockatrice!”

“I… I did do that,” he says hesitantly, “Some time ago now.”

Ciri grins and takes a deep breath and Yennefer presses her fingers to her eyes, “Oh dear, Melitele.”

“ _Oh, there’s a man of dandelions, with eyes so bright and blue,  
_ _He saved our wine from certain doom, he saved both me and you.  
_ _A Jaskier that can’t be bent, a buttercup that can’t be trod,_  
 _His sword swung true and next we knew...  
That cockatrice was done and gone!_” 

Ciri sings the chorus and Jaskier looks stunned. No one’s ever written a song about _him_. It’s always been Jaskier writing about Geralt or sometimes Yennefer. And the occasional, very spiteful ditty about Valdo Marx. 

“Huh,” is all Jaskier’s able to manage, blinking in mild shock still. 

“Letra’s teaching me how to play it,” Ciri says excitedly, “how exciting would it be if you learned it though, Jaskier? The person the song is about, singing his very own song!”

“I… I um,” he feels like the room is a little too small and he pulls on the collar of his shirt slightly. He used to love being the center of attention, but right now he’d give everything to be anything but, “Perhaps someday, little cub.” He clears his throat uncomfortably and turns to Yennefer, deciding to direct the conversation back to something he can handle right now, “You were um… you were saying about your ‘kind of a plan’?”

Ciri looks disappointed to be brushed off the way she was but she doesn’t protest, crossing her arms sourly. Yennefer sighs and leans back in her chair, crossing her legs and resting her hands on her knee, “Nilfgaard is protected by a powerful sorceress named Fringilla. I went up against her at Sodden Hill, she’s part of the reason my beautiful hands are less so now.” She indicates her flame scarred hands and Jaskier doesn’t speak, having not asked but now understanding what had happened. “She’s surely got wherever Geralt is being kept warded by strong magics. I won’t be able to get anyone in or out with those wards in place. But, if you can get in and manage to find Geralt and cause a distraction to Fringilla, weakening the wards, I can create a portal to get you out again.”

Jaskier nods as he thinks about her kind-of plan. It’s more of an outline of a plan but it’s more than he had, and contains more information than Jaskier had. If he had been making the plan he would have just tried to sneak his way in and most likely try to charm his way out. Not much better of a plan if he’s honest.

“Well, do we know where he might be?” Jaskier asks after he’s thought for some time, “Nilfgaard has laid claim to a lot of the Continent now. He could be in a number of countries.”

“Could be, but I don’t think he is,” Yennefer shakes her head, “If they got him with a sedative, which is truthfully the only way I can think of them being able to transport Geralt, they wouldn’t take him far since no one has much knowledge of Witcher biology. Based on what I saw in Roach’s mind, it looked like they were in the Moriblanc Malheur pass when they were attacked, that doesn’t leave many places for them to hold a Witcher.”

“Cintra,” Ciri whispers and Jaskier looks over at her. “They’re holding him in the dungeons of Cintra. It’s the only place with demeritrium metal used in the cuffs and bars of cells.” Jaskier feels his heart sink. Demeritrium hinders the use of magic, stifles anything that could be out of the ordinary. Even Geralt’s mutations would be affected since they were created by potions and alchemy, magical sciences.

Yennefer nods, “That would make the most sense. I don’t doubt that they’re holed up in the castle then, hiding Geralt away in the dungeons as they question him.” 

Jaskier hums and drums his fingers on the table, his eyes gazing at the wall blankly as he thinks deeply. With the knowledge he now has he’s putting the pieces of the puzzle together. The fact that Nilfgaard has most likely chosen the castle of Cintra is a blessing in disguise as Jaskier knows the halls like the back of his hand from his years of visiting Ciri, his friendly relationship with Mousesack, his occasional time in the dungeon when he invoked Calanthe’s exasperated ire. If they’re right, Jaskier knows exactly where in the castle Geralt is being held, and exactly how to get to him.

“Alright,” Jaskier nods and Ciri and Yennefer look at him. His eyes are narrowed with determination and there’s fire in his voice as he speaks, “I have a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 13 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	14. Begging Forgiveness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW Implied Attempted Rape (blink and you'll miss it it's so barely there)
> 
> This is the longest chapter I've written yet with 5000+ words and will probably be one of the, if not the, longest chapter in this work. Format is a little different from previous chapters due to amount of content.
> 
> Enjoy!

William Hedgetz was not a man who dreamt of being a torturous jailer when he was a boy.

No, he doesn’t suppose many people dream of the profession he finds himself in now. As a young lad of Nilfgaard he was groomed, as all were, to join the armed forces and fight for his country’s expansion through the Continent. But that doesn’t mean he wanted to do exactly that. Given the option, William had dreamt of being a _detective_.

He wanted to solve puzzles, put together pieces of a picture so convoluted that the guards had no choice but to call him so he could figure it out for them. Detective William Hedgetz. It has a nice sort of ring to it, wouldn’t you agree? William is smart, and cunning, and cruel when he needs to be, all the makings of a great detective. And, so it seems, a torturous jailer. Which is how he finds himself sitting before a burning hearth, his armor tucked neatly away, and a worn old songbook in his hands as he reads. If he’s to get the information he needs from the Witcher in his dungeon, he needs all the information he can wring from the aged paper between his fingers.

Jaskier of Oxenfurt is a curious man, based on the poems and songs in this book. William recognizes talent and intelligence when he sees it, and his curiosity is piqued by the man’s inability to throw any lines away, no matter how atrocious they may be. The first half of the songbook is filled with lyrics and metaphors and observations and notes about the white haired Witcher in William’s dungeon. Many of the ballads written are about Geralt’s exploits and adventures, but in between the grand tales are much more somber and morose poems. The words aching and melancholy and filled with so much _longing_ it makes William’s own heart turn. 

The second half of the book gives way to more notes, less poetic and theatrical and more sensible. They almost seem like things of memory, William notes, and there’s even an entire page of place names. The names are ancient and unfamiliar to him, but even as his eyes move across the words he feels a strange sense of recognition. Like these places _should_ be places he knows, but they’ve fallen to the wayside of history. Finally, he comes across poetry after all of the notations and it’s clear the frustration the bard had as he strived for perfection in the work as Jaskier had started again and again and again. The most recent attempt is as such, unfinished, but William reads it regardless.

 _Crumpled feathers on broken wings as my brothers are shot from the sky,  
_ _Plummeting to the cold ground with plumes of onyx smoke billowing from their corpses.  
_ _Man extinguishes the fire that burns bright in my sisters eyes,  
_ _Requests were ignored, kind words falling on deaf ears,  
_ _Our gifts cast aside in favor of machines and metal,  
_ _Twisting, breaking, spewing filth into the chaos.  
_ _The silver of universal threads becoming tarnished,  
_ _The hands that polish it red with their own blood._

 _We try to warn them.  
_ _Have caution! The magic you wield is not so easily bent.  
_ _It will bite and snap and tear you apart,  
_ _As you tear us limb from limb.  
_ _Our warnings are not heeded, and we are called traitors.  
_ _Man burns us, and breaks us, and we learn to hide among them.  
_ _They hate us, but we still love them.  
_ _They kill us, but we still heal them.  
_ _They slice us away, cutting and hacking until we are no more,  
_ _And still we live with them._

_For we are one with humans. And they are with us._

William feels something damp on his hand and he looks down to see tears dripping onto his wrists, raising his fingers to his cheek to wipe away the tracks on his skin. The heartbreak in this rough poem was so strong that the act of William, a man with no connection to the universe, was able to dim the fire in the hearth with his tears and shared sorrow. He clears his throat and closes the book, looking at the faded J stamped into the cover, all of the embossed silver rubbed away by the fingers of a Witcher.

William is a smart man. He may not have lived through the Great Cleansing, but he recognizes poetry about it nonetheless.

* * *

Geralt groans softly as he hears the door to his cell open, not ready to open his eyes and deal with Hedgetz again already. It feels like Hedgetz was just in here a few hours earlier, but he recognizes it’s probably been at least a day and his sense of time is skewed by being trapped in this damned cell beneath the earth. He grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes tighter shut, taking stock of his body to prepare himself for today’s abuse. He’s exhausted, for starters, his wrists and shoulders having gone numb days ago from the way he’s been suspended from them for who knows how long now. The cuts on his body, which healed rapidly at first, now barely scab over to stem the flow of blood and he can smell the foul stench of rot, indicating infection has set in. He suspects that there’s demeritrium in this cell, hindering his mutations from repairing his body, stopping his immune system from fighting infection as efficiently as he knows it can. 

Geralt feels stiff and nauseous and like he wants to sleep forever but he can’t because Hedgetz is now talking to him and if he doesn’t listen and at least pretend to answer the punishment will be worse than just telling Hedgetz to piss off.

“...an elf?” Hedgetz is asking and Geralt forces his eyes open and lifts his head to look up at his jailor. He has no idea what Hedgetz is talking about, having completely ignored the man until this point, and Hedgetz seems to be able to tell by the blank expression on Geralt’s face.

“I _said_ ,” Hedgetz sighs and waves his hand and Geralt notices he’s holding Jaskier’s songbook which incites a small flame of anger in his stomach, his lips twisting into a scowl. How dare this man soil Jaskier’s words with his filthy hands? Touching something so precious as his bard’s hard work, never allowed to be seen by eyes that weren’t the bard’s own. He realizes that he wasn’t listening again and Hedgetz is waiting for a response.

“Fuck off,” Geralt grumbles and the Nilfgaardian rolls his eyes, tucking the book back into his pocket as he approaches the Witcher.

“You seem distracted, Geralt,” Hedgetz tilts his head slightly, “I certainly hope it wasn’t because this was a revelation to you.”

Revelation? What revelation? Damn, he really should have been listening to Hedgetz the second time around. Geralt’s sure he still looks lost and confused and Hedgetz shakes his head in disappointment.

“I thought we were beginning to be friends, Geralt. But clearly you listen to me as much as you listen to your own bard,” he pats Geralt’s cheek and Geralt tries to snarl at him but it’s weak and tired and not particularly scary. “I suppose it was only to be expected though, elves don’t deserve the time of day.”

Elves? What the hell is Hedgetz talking about? “What do you mean?” Geralt asks before he can stop and think about what showing interest could mean for him in the long run. Hedgetz’s eyes light up as he steps back to look at Geralt.

“You didn’t know? You’re more cruel than I thought, Geralt,” he grins and it’s not a nice smile. It makes Geralt’s skin crawl and a painful shudder run down his spine. “You’d make a great soldier to Nilfgaard.”

Geralt scowls, getting fed up with the man’s games, “Didn’t know what? What are you talking about?”

“That the bard you traveled with is an elf of course.”

An elf? Jaskier? Geralt would laugh if it didn’t hurt him so much. Jaskier’s clumsier than a newborn fawn and less perceptive than a deaf mole, there’s no way his bard could be one of an Elder race. “I think you’re mistaken,” Geralt says gruffly.

Hedgetz hums and that infuriating smile is still sat upon his lips as he watches Geralt, “I don’t think I am. I would say to ask him, but… he’s not here obviously. No one knows where he is, most theorize that he’s dead.”

Geralt feels his heart squeeze anxiously and he bites his tongue. That’s not possible, Jaskier can’t be dead. He just heard rumors of the bard heading for Cintra… however long ago it was. How could Jaskier have perished? Especially if he’s allegedly killed a cockatrice, he’ll have a much more refined sense of self-preservation than he did while traveling with Geralt. 

Hedgetz sees the conflict in Geralt’s golden eyes and his smile grows as he opens his mouth to twist the invisible dagger he’s slipped between the Witcher’s ribs but he stays silent, closing his mouth again as he listens. Geralt hears it too, the sounds of shouting overhead. A disturbance.

Hedgetz sighs with a frown and looks at the door to the dungeon before shaking his head, “I’ll return, Geralt. We can continue our conversation later.” He then turns and leaves, locking the cell door behind him and leaving Geralt in the dark with more questions than answers and the faint sounds of yelling.

* * *

This is arguably one of the worst plans he’s ever thought of.

As the air is knocked from his lungs and he doubles over when the flat edge of a sword slams into his stomach Jaskier rectifies his previous thought. This is the _worst_ plan he’s ever thought of.

It was simple enough. Jaskier would waltz in to Cintra, claiming to have information on the whereabouts of Cirilla that he wouldn’t give up without adequate payment, haggle and nag and annoy until the soldiers took him to a superior, use some slight of hand to convince the silly and probably superstitious human that he’s a powerful evellian sorcerer, and get thrown in the anti-magic dungeon. Rescue Geralt, distract Fringilla with an enchanted firework, get portaled out of there and Bob’s your uncle!

And it worked! Sort of. Well, at first it did.

Jaskier had walked up to the guards outside of Cintra and told them he had information on where Ciri was, using her full name of course, and he was saying he would be happy to turn over the knowledge he had with a little coin when they interrupted him. Very rudely, if you ask him, by punching him in the gut. It’s not the first punch to the tender flesh of his belly he’s ever sustained so Jaskier recovered quickly but it was still extremely unpleasant. Luckily, after the bastards seemed to have their bit of fun, they escorted him to the castle and things seemed to be going to plan again.

He had been taken to see their superior and Jaskier charmed and smiled and waggled his eyebrows and sashayed his hips and made coins disappear and reappear as he demanded more than what the Nilfgaardian was willing to part with for the information. And perhaps he channeled a bit too much _sexy_ in his impression of Yennefer, but can you blame him? She’s incredibly attractive and exudes sex with every wave of her magical fingers. Regardless, the superior decided to try to have his way with Jaskier, which the elf had no interest in partaking in so Jaskier did the only thing he could think of. He punched the man square in the face.

In hindsight, this was a terrible mistake on Jaskier’s part. Not that having an unwelcome romp was a better alternative but breaking the man’s nose led him to where he is now, being beaten bloody by several soldiers. The soldiers jeer and shout and taunt him as they punch and kick and knock him around, picking him up when he falls to the ground and not letting him say a word other than making sounds of pain. He’s certain a rib is fractured at this point and his nose is bleeding as his face feels warm and wet.

“Stop!” A gravelly voice shouts and the soldiers quiet down, one of them holding Jaskier tightly against their chest and another clamping the elf’s mouth shut. A man with cold gray eyes approaches and takes in the scene, looking Jaskier over and then at the soldiers surrounding him. “Release him.”

“Sir, he’s a mage!” The one holding Jaskier’s mouth protests and the man barks a laugh.

“He’s no more a mage than I am a warg,” the man shakes his head, “He’s simply a bard with a silver tongue and a foolish amount of confidence. Did you come for your Witcher, _Julian_?”

Jaskier’s eyes widen slightly, how does this man know that name? He hasn’t spoken it to anybody in centuries and it’s only written in his long lost songbook. His heart sinks slightly, does Nilfgaard have possession of the book? Jaskier’s written the locations of every evellian haven in there, the remaining elves could be wiped out. The soldiers release Jaskier and he straightens up, adjusting his clothes curtly.

“No,” Jaskier says in a cold voice. He needs to continue the ruse so he gets thrown in the dungeon, not used as a pawn against Geralt. “I’m here to give information on the whereabouts of Princess Cirilla.”

The man’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, “Are you now? And why would you do that?”

“Because I don’t particularly care anymore about what the Witcher gets up to,” Jaskier crosses his arms, keeping his voice haughty and his expression drawn. As much as it pains him to speak ill of Geralt he needs to just irritate his way to imprisonment, “We went our separate ways several years ago now.”

“I don’t suppose you’re just going to give me this information, are you, Julian?” the man asks and Jaskier stiffens slightly at the use of his old name. The man watches Jaskier’s shoulders tighten and his posture straighten with intrigue.

“Do you take me to be a fool?” Jaskier scoffs, “Of course not. I aim to trade.”

“The location for the Witcher?”

Jaskier shakes his head, “I couldn’t care less what you do with Geralt. But before we discuss business, I’d like to know who I have the pleasure of speaking with.”

“Of course,” the man steps forward and offers his hand, “William Hedgetz, Third General of the Guard of Nilfgaard.” Jaskier takes the hand and shakes it firmly, bowing with a flourish.

“You seem to already know who I am,” Jaskier says as he straightens up again and claps his hands together, “By any chance do you have any wine we could split? Business is done best not sober is what I always say.” He’s changing his plan, no more getting thrown in the dungeon. He’s going to see if he can’t finagle his way in instead.

“Smart man,” Hedgetz smiles and turns, beckoning for Jaskier to follow, “This way, Lord Pankratz.” Jaskier feels vaguely sick from the use of his name but does as he’s told, falling in step with the General. He runs his tongue over the hard, smooth surface in his mouth. Yennefer enchanted a piece of rounded metal to turn into a dagger when it draws Jaskier’s blood and then covered the metal in wax, telling him to hide it somewhere in his mouth. He had slipped it into a cavity between two of his teeth, where one of his molars used to reside before it was knocked out in a bar fight long ago.

“General Hedgetz,” Jaskier begins after a few moments, “I haven’t visited Nilfgaard territory in quite some time. I’m afraid I might be a bit outdated on some of your customs and royalty.”

“Oh, I doubt that, Julian,” Hedgetz shakes his head, “As strong as we are, we don’t change much in the way of the arts or society. Our military is what has evolved the most, but even then we’ve just changed the structure of our leadership to have smaller teams and more personable relationships between soldiers. It creates stronger bonds and better fighters.”

Jaskier nods with an interested hum, trying to figure out how to get down to the dungeons and take care of Hedgetz. “Like a pack of wolves,” Jaskier supplies. He glances over at the General who has his hands in his pockets, his posture fully relaxed in Jaskier’s company. He clearly doesn’t find the elf a threat, so Jaskier makes a decision. There’s no way he can overpower the General, but with surprise on his side and an enchanted dagger in his mouth he can get the drop on the man.

“Precisely,” Hedgetz nods with an approving smile, glancing at Jaskier and then looking forward again, “Well trained wolves. Able to hunt and protect at the same time, looking out for our own while expanding our ranks.” While Hedgetz talks, Jaskier tongues the wax out of the cavity in his mouth and he transfers the metal to his hand while wiping the blood off his face with his sleeve. He then nods with a hum to indicate he’s listening as he peels the wax off of the metal and pricks his finger on the sharpened edge. He feels the surge of chaos in his hand, the energy drawn from his blood, as the small piece of metal transmutes into a dagger that he slips up his sleeve.

They turn a corner down a hall that Jaskier knows will be deserted as there is only the library down this way and when he sees he’s correct he drops the dagger out of his sleeve, gripping the hilt and stepping closer to slide the sharp edge across Hedgetz’s exposed neck. The General’s eyes widen in shock as he looks over at Jaskier, blood flooding his armor and gurgling from his throat as he opens his mouth to speak before he collapses to the ground. Jaskier’s stomach turns but he doesn’t have time to dwell on the fact that he’s now killed four people. He needs to hide the body.

He cleans the blade on the General’s pants before tucking it in his own waistband, hiding the hilt beneath his untucked chemise. Jaskier then carefully picks up the heavy corpse, lugging the man into the library and dumping the body behind the shelves of the mathematics section. It’s just as dusty as he remembers it being so he doubts anyone will find it anytime soon. There’s a loud panting in the library and Jaskier looks up and around nervously before realizing it’s himself making the sound, his own breathing labored as he fights the pull of panic. 

“Calm down,” he whispers, closing his eyes and breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth a few times, “Calm down. No use panicking. Can’t rescue anybody if you’re a nervous wreck on the ground.” Jaskier takes a few more deep breaths until his heart is a steady pace and he doesn’t feel like he’ll fall apart at the seams if he keeps moving, releasing a heavy sigh and opening his eyes again. He looks down at the gray face of Hedgetz with a frown and whispers and apology before crouching and searching the pockets of the General.

Surprisingly, he finds the keys to the dungeon in the General’s pocket. Triumphantly, Jaskier tucks the keys in his own pocket and keeps searching for anything else of interest. He takes a small coin purse, ignoring the echoes of being called a thief that rings through his memory, and pulls a leather book out of Hedgetz’s pocket. His songbook. 

Jaskier looks at it in awe for a few moments before slipping it into the pocket sewn inside his chemise, his lockpicking tools clinking slightly as they’re shoved over next to the book. He can’t believe how well this has turned out, sort of. 

That’s that last time he thinks that about this rescue.

* * *

The yelling had stopped a while ago but Hedgetz hadn’t returned and Geralt takes a moment to count his blessings. They aren’t many, in fact right now it’s just the one, but he’ll take it. He doesn’t want to think about what Hedgetz had said, about Jaskier being dead, it’s not possible and Geralt just won’t accept that as truth. His bard is more resilient than a cockroach, Geralt’s seen him get hit by things that would kill stronger men than even himself and Jaskier had survived, coming through maybe a little worse for wear but still bouncing and cheerful. 

Thinking about Jaskier is a luxury that he tries to ration, it brings him comfort as Geralt can pretend that his bard is here with him, chattering on about nothing like usual and just saying anything that comes to his head. Even now, he can almost hear Jaskier’s singing if he closes his eyes and concentrates. 

“. _..for ‘tis naught but bad luck, to fuck with a puck, lest your grandkid be born a hairy young faun_ , _bleating and braying all day, hey ho_.”

Geralt’s brow crinkles slightly, is it just his imagination or is the singing getting… louder? His fantasies don’t usually carry music above a whisper, like a secret held close to his heart only for him to hear. He doesn’t open his eyes though, focusing on the music. It’s not particularly loud in general, being sung under a breath to avoid being heard but Geralt’s strong hearing can pick it up despite the demeritrium. The door to the dungeons opens and the singing gives way to soft humming as feet skip jauntily down the steps. It has to be Geralt’s mind playing tricks on him. Hedgetz is coming back and to protect him he’s imagining Jaskier humming like his bard does when he’s concentrating.

The footsteps come to a halt in front of Geralt’s cell and there’s a soft “aha!” before a key is shoved into the lock and jiggled. The lock doesn’t turn and Geralt decides to open his eyes, looking up to find out who’s trying to unlock his cell as Hedgetz would certainly know which key is the right one.

His golden eyes lock on to bright cornflower blue through the bars of the cell and Geralt feels his heart stop as he looks at the man, no, the _elf,_ if the pointed ears are any indication, standing outside his cell. Geralt looks as though he’s seeing the sun for the first time in days, his face an expression of awe and shock and something else as Jaskier breaks his gaze and looks back down at the lock to try another key. 

“Why can’t anybody label their keys?” Jaskier grumbles slightly as the second key doesn’t work and Geralt still doesn’t speak, just drinking in the sight of his bard like a parched man at the edge of an oasis. Jaskier’s taller, his eyes more blue and his facial structure both sharper and more beautiful than Geralt ever thought possible. He almost doesn’t recognize his bard, dressed in black and dark gray with long dyed blond hair and shoulders broadened from fighting. The thick scar crossing Jaskier’s face doesn’t take away from his beauty, if anything it enhances it, and Geralt finds himself entranced. Even with blood on his face and a broken and bruising nose, rumpled clothing and a sour expression of irritation Jaskier is the most beautiful thing Geralt has ever seen in this moment.

“Fucking…” Jaskier is getting frustrated until a key finally scrapes in the lock, turning fully and he grins in success. Geralt notices the lack of canines in the bard’s mouth, recalling someone telling him once that elves don’t have any. He should be angry at Jaskier for hiding this from him, but he can’t find it in himself to be cross. He doesn’t have the energy, nor does he want to harbor any sort of resentment towards his bard right now.

“Afternoon,” Jaskier tips an imaginary hat to Geralt as he enters the cell, strolling over to the Witcher and appraising his injuries with a small frown, “These look nasty. Lucky for you, I brought some potions along because I had a feeling Nilfgaard were going to be bastards, as they often are. D’you think you can walk? Your legs don’t look too injured but I can’t imagine standing in one spot for a month is particularly pleasant on the joints.”

Geralt blinks and stares at Jaskier for a moment, listening to him chatter away. Finally, he finds his tongue and manages to say the first thing that comes to his mind, “You’re an elf.”

Jaskier looks over at him as he’s unlocking the cuffs around Geralt’s wrists and gets a strange expression on his face. It’s not one Geralt’s seen the bard sport before and it takes him a moment to realize that it’s disappointment. “Yes, excellent observational skills, Geralt,” his voice has a bit of an annoyed edge as he catches Geralt’s deadened arm, “I’m so glad that that’s what’s most important right now is my elvishness. No ‘how are you, Jaskier?’ or ‘Thank you for rescuing me, Jaskier’ or even an ‘I’m sorry I was such a prick on that fucking mountain, Jaskier’,” his voice has grown bitter as he massages the blood back into Geralt’s arm, “Which I’m still extremely angry about, by the way, so don’t think me being here makes us friends again.”

“I… what?” Geralt frowns. There’s so much information coming so fast, he’s not sure what to focus on first. Apparently this was the wrong thing to say as Jaskier scowls then, his eyes narrowing angrily.

“Nevermind,” Jaskier snaps irritably, “Let’s just get this over with so I can take myself off your hands again.” Geralt’s stomach twists with guilt and he looks down, wincing as pins and needles push into his arm and he flexes his fingers. Jaskier takes that to mean feeling has returned to the limb and he moves to Geralt’s other arm, reaching up to uncuff it.

“Jaskier… I,” Geralt tries again, his voice is hoarse from lack of water and the force of not screaming in pain every time he was hurt. His throat aches but he can’t let another minute pass without telling Jaskier, without at least giving him this, “I’m sorry.”

Jaskier glances at him, his expression unchanging as he gently lowers Geralt’s arm. Even in his anger he’s still being so careful with Geralt. Jaskier speaks flatly after a few moments, “For?”

“Everything.” The elf looks at him and clearly that isn’t enough so Geralt presses forward, trying to get the words right. He’s thought about this moment so many times but now that it’s actually here the sentences just won’t come out the way he wants them to, “I… took you for granted. I didn’t appreciate you like I should have. I was cruel to you when you were, are, my friend. I shouldn’t have… I mean with Yennefer…” Geralt struggles to find the words and Jaskier waits patiently, running his thin fingers down Geralt’s arm. “I shouldn’t have taken my frustrations out on you. I’m sorry.”

Jaskier is quiet as he thinks and when he sees Geralt is able to move the fingers on this arm he takes Geralt’s hand in his and pats it gently, “it’s a start, Witcher. I appreciate your apology.” He then kneels down and uncuffs Geralt’s ankles before slipping under Geralt’s arm to provide him support in walking, “Now let’s get you out of this cell so I can treat some of this.”

If Geralt weren’t so exhausted he would be embarrassed by how much he ends up leaning on Jaskier as they walk out of the cell, but the moment they’re outside of it Geralt feels like a weighted blanket is lifted off of him. He can hear and smell and see again, he can think a bit more clearly. His body is still fatigued and useless in a fight right now but at least he’s not a dead man walking. Jaskier clears off the table with Geralt’s things on it and sits the Witcher down, patting his pockets for something before remembering it’s in his boot. He pulls his shoe off and turns it upside down, a small jar of healing salve falling out into his hand.

Jaskier hums quietly, just barely loud enough to be heard even by Geralt’s ears, as he gently applies the salve to Geralt’s wounds. At first it stings as it cleans and disinfects, clearing the cuts of pus and dirt, but then a blessed numbness spreads through Geralt, dulling the pain. Jaskier helps him put his shirt on and puts Geralt’s boots on before they get to their feet again. Geralt’s medallion is tucked away in his pocket so the metal isn’t resting against any of his injuries right now and Jaskier glances at the armor on the table, trying to think of a way to transport it.

“How did you know I was here?” Geralt asks quietly. He wants to hear his bard talk again, unnerved by how quiet Jaskier is. He’s never been able to keep his mouth shut but now it seems like Geralt has to prompt him to speak.

“Yennefer found me,” Jaskier says, deciding to buckle all of the armor together and tuck it under his arm, “When Roach returned riderless. She didn’t want to leave Cirilla alone while she rescued you so she thought I could help.” He slips under Geralt’s arm again and they make their way up the stairs out of the dungeon.

“So she sent you?” Geralt’s not sure why it makes his heart ache slightly if Jaskier didn’t come of purely his own volition. “How are we supposed to get out?”

“She asked me to help,” Jaskier grunts slightly under Geralt’s weight as they make their way down a large corridor, “And I said yes. Nilfgaard has a mage named Fringilla who protects the castle. She should be distracted with an enchanted firework I set in the Grand Ballroom. It’ll be going off any minute now and Yennefer will be able to-”

“Yennefer will be able to do what?” A cold voice drawls from behind them and Jaskier swears. Geralt feels ice run through his veins as he recognizes the voice of Fringilla Vigo. They turn around and the small but powerful sorceress bares her teeth at them in a feral smile, Fringilla’s eyes glinting dangerously, “Oh, please don’t stop attempting to escape on my behalf. It’s much more fun to catch mice when they run.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 14 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	15. Crimson Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry.
> 
> Enjoy!

In the days leading up to a storm the air will get heavier. You can’t see it, but water is already filling the space around you, increasing the density of the atmosphere you breathe. It makes everything move more slowly, like a movie that’s stuck at half speed but you’re also at half speed so everything just seems sluggish. Water conducts electricity, so as the storm grows nearer and the clouds get heavier and sag lower in the sky, looming darker and closer with every passing hour, the hairs on your arms will stand on end. You might get goosebumps erupting along your clammy skin, the feeling of being watched becoming a constant presence. The refreshing breeze from only a few days before has grown to a howling gale and the air gets heavier and you can’t imagine why you can’t see the water in it, with how humid it is you’d think the moisture would be visible to the naked eye but it isn’t, and you get a static shock when you touch metal, the current snapping at your tender fingers and leaving the nerves smarting. If you concentrate, you can feel the static rolling along your skin as the world grows quiet and the wind dies down and the earth becomes eerily calm as everything, nature and man alike, hold their breath in anticipation.

Jaskier feels like the quiet tension in the hall is akin to that before a storm, his heart hammering in his chest as he watches Fringilla Vigo and becomes hyper aware of the fact that Geralt is so heavy on his shoulders. There’s no way the Witcher can fight; he’s too injured and ill to protect himself, let alone Jaskier, not that Jaskier would expect him to anymore, so Jaskier now has to think of a way to protect the White Wolf who sags against him. His skin crawls like thousands of ants are climbing over him from the chaos brewing in the air, the unnatural amounts of magic rolling off of the sorceress snapping against Jaskier’s senses uncomfortably.

He shifts his weight as he subtly adjusts Geralt to bear the Witcher’s weight on his back instead of his shoulders and giving his arms more range of motion. This seems to break the spell of silence and Geralt huffs out a soft keen of pain, making Jaskier glance back towards him. The brief distraction is all Fringilla was waiting for as she raises her hands and sends a wave of fire down the stone corridor, the flames licking at the walls hungrily. Jaskier grunts as he spins around, hunkering down and ignoring the pained cry Geralt involuntarily makes as he forces Geralt to fold into a ball on the ground and he covers the Witcher with himself. The inferno immediately eats away his shirt and boils his skin and Jaskier grits his teeth so hard the bones whine under the pressure and he fears they’ll shatter but he can’t scream, not with Geralt’s sensitive ears so close to his mouth.

“I know you aren’t supposed to play with your food,” Fringilla says as the fire disappears as quickly as it came and Jaskier moves fast, unsure when the next attack will come. His scorched back nearly cripples him as he tries to straighten up and turn around, keeping Geralt behind him as he unsheathes his dagger. “But I’m a lover of presentation, and you just aren’t quite appetizing enough to eat yet, elf.” She rears back and throws her hand at him, water bursting from the air and surging towards Jaskier as it convulges into a bubble that will surely drown him if it gets the chance.

He dives out of the way, landing heavily and rolling across the ground ungracefully as he avoids the attack. Fringilla changes the trajectory of the magic then, the water flying towards Geralt, who has yet to get up off the ground again. It then bursts into a spray as it collides violently with an invisible wall, the glint of a golden medallion around Geralt’s neck catching Fringilla’s eye. The uneven paving stones dig into his back and unwarranted tears spring to his eyes while he gets to his feet again, pulling out a small handful of buckshot he had unthinkingly tucked into his pocket and hurling it at the sorceress. 

It hits its mark and she grits her teeth, shrieking in rage as the buckshot gets into her eyes and blinds her temporarily. Jaskier takes this moment to run to Geralt, pulling the Witcher to his feet again so Jaskier can move him to the side of the hall at the very least, where he’ll be a bit more out of the way. It ends up being more of a drag as Jaskier just can’t get Geralt’s feet under him again so he hustles with his hands under the Witcher’s arms, pulling him quickly out of the way.

“You little _vermin_ !” Fringilla shouts and Jaskier barely has time to prop Geralt up against the wall before he’s avoiding barbed vines that burst out of the stone. The flora is a mottled green, deeper than the darkest of emeralds, and Jaskier has no doubts that it’s poisoned as he slices at a tendril that gets dangerously close to grabbing him. “If you think I have _any_ intentions of letting you or your mutant freak leave this place, then you are sorely mistaken!”

“Come now, Fringilla,” Jaskier is only half aware of himself replying to her as he focuses on dancing around the vines that continue to wriggle free of the stone floor and walls, writhing towards him. And he’s only armed with a _knife_ , how is that fair? “Don’t you have any goats to be sacrificing to your dark lords or something? Any babies to be eating? Surely,” he grunts as he tucks into a roll as a vine shoots out of the wall and narrowly misses impaling his head, “you’ve got something better to do than get bested by an elf?”

“ _Bested_?” Fringilla snarls and the vines disintegrate, leaving overturned cobblestone and dirt behind which ripples like the ocean and then Jaskier finds he can’t move his right foot anymore. He looks down and sees that his foot has been swallowed by molded earth and he grabs his knee to brace it as he tries to pull his foot out of his boot. “Elves are the scum of the earth. More vile than the rodents that reside in sewers and infect the drivel that lines the streets of Cintra.” She strides closer to him and he looks up, making eye contact with her. Piercing brown eyes, darker than the richest of molasses, meet cornflower blue, her gaze searching deep within his soul and her sneer turns into a cold and cruel smile. 

“There you are,” she croons softly and Jaskier’s eyes widen as he sees her raise her hands towards him. He closes his eyes and braces himself for pain and he feels the crackle of chaos wash over him as he wrenches his foot out of his boot, his ankle protesting the mistreatment by popping audibly while he falls forward onto his hands and knees.

Voices chatter around him and he hears the clinking of cutlery on china and the chiming of crystal colliding and fabric swishing against the ground by his face, a classic waltz melody cascading through the air to his ears. Jaskier opens his eyes warily and looks up, his heart squeezing painfully as he recognizes his surroundings and he scrambles to his feet while ignoring the pain in his ankle. He’s no longer dressed in dark and dreary clothes that were good for hunting and fighting, now swathed in fine white and dark blue silks that caress his skin as softly as a lover’s touch. Nobility twirl in front of him as they dance, bright colors swirling in the skirts of the ladies and golden threads glimmering on the coats of the men. A red silk sash crosses Jaskier’s chest and his fingers idly run over it, an old motion that he hasn’t made in a century as he glances around for a familiar face. But he can’t find one.

“This is where you belong, Julian,” Fringilla’s soft voice is directly behind him and he gasps, jumping away and spinning around to face her. She’s also dressed in finery, a black gown with an empire waist clings to the curves of her bust with silver lace accentuating the neckline and hugging her arms as the sleeves widen in a bell at her thin wrists. The skirt of the gown is patterned with tiny diamonds that glitter with the movement of the fabric as Fringilla steps closer to him, placing her hand on his chest. He shudders and takes a step away from her, eyeing her warily.

“Where are we? What have you done with Geralt?” Jaskier looks around quickly again, not wanting to relinquish his view of the sorceress but needing to check the party again. With a start he recognizes something that all these nobles have in common. They’re all _elves_.

“We’re back home,” Fringilla walks around him, dragging her fingers lightly across his shoulders and she gently bats the gold tassels that hang from the decorated jacket. It’s nothing like what he would wear as a bard, preferring more gaudy colors to the elegant white jacket and midnight blue pants he’s wearing right now. “ _Lettenhove_. Or rather… I suppose it was actually called Letenhyve before humans moved in. Don’t you recognize your own kingdom?” 

Jaskier swallows thickly and doesn’t take his eyes off of her, “What are you doing?” He asks in a low voice, grabbing her wrist as she reaches for the sash. Fringilla smiles up at him but it’s one of ice and her eyes are angry as she watches him struggle to sort through his emotions.

“What’s wrong, Julian? I thought you’d be happy to see it again,” she simpers and he scowls.

“Stop calling me that.”

“What, Julian? But it’s your name, isn’t it? Julian, Julian, _Julian_ ,” she pulls her wrist free of his hand and dances out of his reach as she taunts him and he growls, reaching for a sword that he knows isn’t on his hip.

“Stop it!” 

Fringilla grins and disappears amongst the elves so Jaskier follows her, pushing through the nobles without a second thought as he tries to catch her, reaching for her wrist or to try and step on the edge of her gown. _Anything_ to stop her from escaping him.

There’s suddenly a wall in front of him and he’s drawn up short, stopping himself from running into it as the din of the party falls away. He looks around and finds he’s not in a room anymore at all, just pitch black stretching out as far as the eye can see save for the spot of light he’s standing in, no signs of Fringilla either. Jaskier turns back towards the wall and is startled to see there is none, just a single standing full-length mirror. The frame of the mirror is ornate tarnished silver, the Elder etched into the metal faded with age and Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat as he spins around to look behind him. There’s nothing there, just the inky blackness of wherever he is.

But when he looks in the mirror there’s a massacre. His reflection shows him standing in a field with the remains of a city in the distance, plumes of black smoke choking the ashen sky. Bodies, mangled and bloodied and broken, litter the grasses around him, pointed ears on every single one. The corpses of not just elven soldiers, but women and children, lay lifeless at his feet, and blood stains the ornate white jacket he still wears. He spots the tiny body of an infant, just as cold and dead as all the others, and Jaskier makes a wounded sound, raising a hand as he reaches towards the mirror. His hands are covered in crimson that runs down his wrists in rivulets, dripping from his fingers to the ground below. The worst part of it all is the golden crown that sits upon Jaskier’s head, the polished metal marred by blood that’s been smeared across the surface.

“Look what you did, Julian,” Fringilla snarls and Jaskier flinches hard, tearing his tortured gaze away from the mirror to search for her in the darkness, “You _abandoned_ them. You were supposed to protect them.”

“It’s not my fault…” Jaskier protests weakly. He catches a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye and turns his head slightly, using his peripheral vision to track it. There. Fringilla is still here, just out of sight, cloaked by magic. But Jaskier has magic too, so he can see past her glamour, spying her in the dark out of the corner of his eye.

“It is,” her voice is venomous and he can’t help the small whimper that slips from his chest, “Prince Julian Alfred Pankratz, heir to the Letenhyve throne. Father and mother slaughtered in the second invasion of Nilfgaard and instead of coming home and taking up your role as King you _ran away_ , Julian. You let your people _die_.”

He wants to argue, wants to scream at her that she’s wrong and he’s done nothing to garner Destiny’s wrath, but he can’t. Because she isn’t wrong. He ran instead of going to his people, hiding amongst the humans during the Great Cleansing and leaving the elves of Letenhyve vulnerable and weak. Their deaths are on his crimson hands.

“You’re a _monster_.”

Jaskier feels tears in his eyes and his stomach is hot with rage as he snarls, “Maybe I am. But so are you!” Then he turns and leaps at her, trying to tackle her to the ground. Instead he crashes head first into something hard and unyielding and Jaskier cries out as pain blossoms through his skull and his vision briefly goes white and then black as he closes his eyes tightly. It's only for a moment though, he's still conscious so he needs to get up again and open his eyes, there's no room for error.

His vision is blurry but he’s broken the illusion spell that Fringilla cast on him, back in the hall with Geralt and the sorceress. It seems what he’s run into was the wall and his head is pounding from the force of the collision as he staggers to his feet again, blood running down his face. Fringilla is starting to look fatigued, the illusion having required more energy than she had expected since he put up a good fight mentally. But Jaskier’s expression is haggard and exhausted as he glares at the sorceress with a snarl on his bloodied face. Fringilla scowls at him and Jaskier feels her gathering her chaos again, the air becoming charged, and he only has a few precious seconds.

“Geralt!” Jaskier barks suddenly. The Witcher, who has up until this point been watching with wide eyes as Jaskier battled the sorceress and then staggered around the hall, seeing things that weren’t there, and listening as Fringilla tried to tear Jaskier down piece by agonizing piece, looks over at Jaskier with a sudden burst of attention. “On your feet please!” Geralt gets the urge to argue, to point out that if he wasn’t able to stand earlier then why would he be able to stand now? But there’s something in the tone of Jaskier’s voice that makes him keep his mouth firmly shut as he struggles to his feet, swaying slightly but remaining upright.

Jaskier glances over to confirm that Geralt is standing and he swallows, making eye contact with the Witcher and giving him a tiny smile. Geralt frowns slightly, this hardly seems the time for smiling, and he watches as Jaskier curls his hands into fists. The medallion in his pocket, which has been steadily humming from the presence of Fringilla, jerks and begins to rattle almost violently. 

Softly, so quietly that only Geralt can hear him, Jaskier whispers, “I forgive you.” His blue eyes are so bright Geralt’s not sure he can even call them cornflower anymore, looking more like the blue of the heart of a strike of pure lightning.

Geralt opens his mouth to say something, he’s not sure what but _something_ , when Jaskier looks away and throws his hands upwards towards the high ceilings of the stone hall. The words the elf shouts are rich and thick and commanding and fill the air with a feeling similar to if a gong was struck directly beside you, shaking you down to your very bones, “ **_CARRAIGH YS_ **!” The burst of chaos that floods from Jaskier makes the stone groan and shudder, the foundation of the castle rocking from the ancient magic he invokes. Cracks run up the walls faster than shattered glass, racing each other to see who can get to the ceiling first, and there’s a moment of silence after the snapping and rumbling of rock ceases and the cracks form enormous arches in the hall.

“Jas-”

The ceiling falls. The castle is caving in on itself and crumbling, dust and debris raining down on them as the old structure collapses around them. A huge chunk of stone knocks Fringilla to the ground, providing the distraction needed for Yennefer to create a portal and one appears behind Geralt, the dirt and dust and stone swirling rapidly and crackling with energy. Geralt looks behind him and then over at Jaskier who looks more dead than alive now, blood flowing freely from his bard’s nose and mouth and running down his ashy skin. 

Jaskier’s not down and out yet though as he starts to sprint back across the hall to Geralt, shortening the distance from fifty meters to forty then thirty. He narrowly avoids some of the collapsing rock by darting to the side as he runs and he’s so close and Geralt doesn’t want to step through the portal without him but then Jaskier hears something and Geralt hears it too, both of them turning their heads to see Fringilla stand once more, pointing at Geralt with rage in her bloodshot eyes and she opens her mouth to cast her spell, her lips twisting around the words that are drowned out by the deafening sounds of collapsing stone.

There’s suddenly hands on Geralt’s aching chest and the briefest smell of lavender and wood oil and Geralt sees one last glimpse of cornflower blue before he’s falling backwards through the portal and everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You lucky ducks, TWO chapters in one day? I found out that if I draft chapters ahead of time, posting them doesn’t boost my work to the top of the most recent in any of the tags on it since it’ll say it was updated when I drafted the chapter and not when it was actually posted. So I had to post my other drafted chapter today instead of tomorrow if I want to get more eyes on this bad boy.
> 
> Thank you for reading Chapter 15 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	16. Floating in Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in the final stretch lads, only four more chapters after this.
> 
> This is the chapter where I remember this fic has a 'fluff' tag on it (and we deserve it after all that angst!)
> 
> Enjoy!

He feels like he’s floating in an inferno. Heat licks at his body and he’s boiling from the inside out, his innards expanding and pressing outwards but his skin is taut and holds them in, straining from the effort of not letting him burst like an ink sack. While he’s burning up he knows he’s shivering, desperate for warmth at the same time, the world too cold as a windless blizzard kisses his torso. His blood rushes in his ears, his heartbeat slow and deafening, every breath he drags into his frozen lungs exhaled with a wheeze. He can faintly hear voices floating alongside him and he tries to surface, to swim out of the black magma he’s submerged in, to let them know he’s here and he can hear them but the lava is thick and viscous and it fills his mouth and nose.

_“...eralt? Where...”_

_“...on the bed, he’s got a fever.”_

_"What about…”_

_“...make it...”_

He becomes vaguely aware that there’s something small and cool resting on his burning chest and the small relief it brings is enough for him to relax just a touch. The darkness drags him down again as he reaches for the sun, the voices fading and his steady heartbeat filling his ears once more.

* * *

Geralt opens his eyes when he feels a cool breeze across his face and smells the scent of pollen and honeysuckle in the air. The sun is warm on his skin as it trickles through the canopy of trees overhead, the green leaves shifting and rippling in the light and the gentle wind. Birds chirp nearby and he can hear a stream bubbling not far away, the sounds of splashing coming from the water source. He rises and looks around, checking to make sure that nothing is amiss. 

Roach grazes peacefully nearby, her tail swishing to bat away a few flies that buzz around her flank, and the saddlebags are right where he left them the night before. One of them is open and Geralt glances at the empty bedroll next to the extinguished fire, dusty lute case left closed and latched atop the blankets. He then looks over in the direction of the stream and decides to check over there, walking through the trees.

As he nears the water he spies his traveling companion knelt by the side of the stream, feet crossed and tucked neatly beneath a bottom that has no right looking as good as it does. Jaskier’s humming quietly, clearly trying to not disturb Geralt as he bathes in the stream, running water up his bare arm to rinse away the suds left from the oil soap perched on a rock at his side. Geralt can’t help but stare a little since Jaskier is shirtless, and he’s never seen the bard without a shirt before despite Jaskier having seen Geralt naked several times now, watching as Jaskier bends over to wash his dark hair. The bard’s back is more toned than Geralt expected it to be considering the man’s profession, Jaskier’s lithe muscles moving beneath the pale and freckled skin of Jaskier’s shoulders. His shoulder blades stick out slightly and remind Geralt vaguely of a bird and Geralt sees something akin to elegant lettering etched into Jaskier’s fair skin along his spine but it’s too small to make out from the distance he’s at.

Geralt should make his presence known before he can scare Jaskier too badly but he finds himself rooted to the spot as Jaskier begins to sing softly, keeping his voice low and a bit husky from disuse this early in the morning. Geralt swallows slightly but still doesn’t speak, trying to understand the lyrics. He blinks in surprise when he realizes Jaskier is singing in Elder and Geralt’s so enraptured by the private performance that he doesn’t notice the very faint hum that his medallion emits against his chest. The forest seems to join in with Jaskier’s song, birds chirping along melodiously and the wind providing percussion in the rustling of leaves. A wolf howls far away at just the right time to be considered an accompaniment and the water of the stream dancing over rocks is like the gentlest of bells. It’s like the forest itself is Jaskier’s very own orchestra.

Geralt takes a single step forward, as though in a trance, and a twig snaps under his foot. A discordant note in the musical piece being performed by the world around him and the singing stops as Jaskier whips around, water flinging from his wet hair comically. The fear in Jaskier’s blue eyes melts away once he sees it’s Geralt behind him and he smiles brightly, getting to his feet and pulling his plain white chemise back on.

“Good morning, Geralt,” Jaskier greets pleasantly as he pulls his boots on before wrapping the soap up in its wax paper. The forest, disappointingly, has gone back to its normal chatter and Geralt’s medallion is still. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

“Hmm,” he grunts in response. Jaskier understands it’s a negative though, and he nods, tightening the buckles of his boots so they’re secure on his calves.

“Oh good, you looked like you needed the sleep so I was trying my very best to remain quiet for you,” he pushes his wet hair off of his face as a drop of water runs down his jaw and neck, disappearing below the collar of his shirt. 

Geralt tracks the water droplet with his eyes before they snap back up to Jaskier’s face, speaking with a wry smile, “And yet, somehow, you still managed to make more noise than a branded bull.”

Jaskier feigns offense, gasping dramatically and pressing a hand to his chest, “You wound me, Geralt! See if I ever actively try to be quiet for you again. You’d think that’s something you want from me, seeing how often you ask it.” Jaskier’s eyes twinkle merrily as he walks past the Witcher towards their camp, “Oh well, I suppose I’m doomed to be noisier than a crowing rooster in the morning.”

“Fuck.”

Jaskier laughs and the sound is so beautiful and pure, something about it seems different in this moment and Geralt can’t quite tell what it is but his lips quirk upwards as Jaskier’s mirth rings out like the chiming of bells through the ancient forest of Caed Dhu.

Later, as the two men enjoy a simple meal of eggs and slightly stale bread, Geralt remembers that Jaskier was singing in Elder and looks over at the bard, deciding to ask about it. Jaskier’s prattling on about something that Geralt has no interest in but he was trying to make an effort to at least sound a little engaged in the conversation before changing the topic.

“Jaskier,” Geralt tries to get the bard’s attention but the man continues to chatter endlessly.

“Which is why I firmly believe that men in waiting should be a thing. I mean ladies in waiting get to have all the fun, why can’t men wear pretty dresses and paint their faces and decorate themselves with more jewels and rhinestones than anyone can comfortably look at?”

“ _Jaskier_.” 

“If I wanted to stand around with my cock in my hand, same as a woman with a fan, waiting for somebody to wed me while dressed to the nines then I should be allowed. I tried to, once, to get the practice to take off. Of men in waiting, I mean. Wore the most beautiful satin gown that I may or may not have nicked from a certain Countess who had recently broken my fragile heart-”

“Jaskier!” Geralt says a bit louder and Jaskier blinks, looking over at the Witcher with his mouth open still from his tirade.

Jaskier closes his mouth and smiles, he knows he can sometimes get sucked into his one-sided conversations and ignore the people around him, “Yes, Geralt?”

“Earlier, at the stream,” Geralt keeps his gaze firmly on Jaskier’s forehead so he isn’t making eye contact while he speaks, “when you were bathing. You were singing. What song was that?”

Jaskier looks surprised that Geralt heard him and laughs slightly, the sound a bit airy as he looks away at the low fire, “Oh, it was nothing. Just an old lullaby my mother sang to me.”

“A lullaby?” Geralt’s brows draw together slightly and he notices an almost imperceptible tightness around Jaskier’s eyes, “Your mother sang you lullabies in Elder?”

Jaskier nods slowly, “Sometimes. My parents were very big believers in having multilingual children.”

“Elder isn’t a very commonly spoken language anymore,” Geralt points out, “What use would you have for it?”

“It came in handy when we first met if you care to recall,” Jaskier argues, “If I remember right, you don’t speak much of it while I both speak and understand it fluently.”

Geralt hums passively to try and placate Jaskier’s ruffled feathers, deciding to direct the conversation back to whatever Jaskier was talking about before. For some reason, the bard’s linguistic skills in a nearly dead language are a touchy subject but Geralt drops it. Everyone has their secrets.

* * *

The lava has frozen over and he’s stuck inside of it, colder than the subzero temperatures at mountain peaks in the dead of winter. His jaw aches and his teeth are sore from chattering and he hears himself moan but there’s no relief from the icy silence. There’s pressure in his hand that increases briefly and someone strokes his face as words filter through the roar of his shuddering. He doesn’t feel the thing on his chest anymore.

_"...another blanket?”_

_“He’ll overheat. If his temperature gets too…”_

_“...almost ready. Sit him up.”_

He feels himself be lifted into a seated position and his jaw is forced open, a gentle touch on his throat encouraging him to swallow as something spiced burns his tongue. He doesn’t enjoy it but he can’t find the energy to open his eyes, to try to talk or make even a sound. It’s too cold, he aches for any sort of warmth to be beside him as he sinks back into dark and silent waters.

* * *

“How come you never told me you could use a bow and arrow? Where did you even learn, anyway?” Geralt asks Jaskier, his words slurred and sitting across from the bard in front of a blazing hearth. After Jaskier had angered a knight of the local nobility and then positively demolished said knight at a shooting contest, Jaskier and Geralt had gone to the tavern and gotten shitfaced in celebration. 

Jaskier lifts his tankard and drains the rest of the ale from it, his cheeks happily flushed and his doublet tossed over the back of the chair he’s draped across, “You never asked,” he grins at Geralt, his blue blue eyes twinkling merrily, “In eighteen years, you’ve never asked.” Geralt takes a moment to appreciate the way the lanky bard is sprawled out across the bar chair, his knees hooked over the arm and the high back and his shoulders pressed tightly against the other arm, his head hung back to look at Geralt at an odd, upside down angle.

Geralt scoffs and shakes his head, “For someone who speaks so fucking much, you never say a damn thing, Jask.”

“A trick of the trade, my Witchery friend!” Jaskier laughs and his foot is bouncing incessantly, somehow he’s still full of energy after the events of the day, “A skill I’ve honed to perfection in my many years of life.”

“Hmm?” Geralt hums curiously and takes a long drink from his ale, “You’re thirty fucking six, Jask, I’d hardly call that many years.”

Jaskier’s grin grows, as though he knows something Geralt doesn’t. Geralt wonders how the bard’s not getting a crick in his neck from the way he’s seated. “Regardless. There’s different levels of talking, as I’m sure you’re aware, different ways to go around without being seen.”

Geralt nods with a grunt.

“Exactly my case in point,” Jaskier points at Geralt with a flourish, “You, sir Witcher, are silent and broody and act scary to draw the least attention and talk to the least amount of people. You avoid conversations by making people not want them to have them with you, which is an excellent skill of yours!” 

Geralt can’t help the small, but smug, smile as he watches Jaskier articulate his thoughts with his hands. His bard is going to end up falling out of the chair at this rate, and he’s deciding whether he’s going to warn Jaskier to sit up to avoid it all or if he’ll just watch and wait. It will be very funny if Jaskier does fall.

“Then there’s the complete opposite end of the spectrum where I lie!” Jaskier makes an exaggerated rainbow with his hands, “You’re over here in dark and angst land, and I’m all the way over here in sunshine and rainbow city.”

“Get on with it,” Geralt rolls his eyes, “What’s your point?”

“My point is,” Jaskier sits up a bit, propping himself up on his elbow and twisting at the waist. Geralt’s surprised at how flexible the bard is and starts to wonder just how flexible Jaskier really is but he shuts down that thought train before it can go too far with the amount of alcohol in his system. “My _point_ is, I learned at a very young age that talking too much will get you the same results as if you hadn’t spoken at all. So, while you drive away conversationalists with scowls and glares, I keep them at bay with long-winded monologues of absolutely no importance!”

“Huh, guess so,” Geralt nods and sips his ale, his thoughts lingering on how Jaskier mentioned that he learned this lesson at a very young age. How young was the bard when he learned he would be ignored if he ran his mouth? Geralt can’t imagine Jaskier ever being a quiet person, especially not as a child, and it saddens him to think of a parent brushing off their child just because they’re talkative. He thinks about how Jaskier never talks about his past either, aside from his sexual exploits, and Geralt wants to ask about the bard’s home and his family, and he must have one since he clearly comes from nobility, but Jaskier’s already gone off on a tangent about how you can never be too prepared for a goose attack.

Geralt doesn’t even realize that Jaskier never answered his other question about where he learned to wield a bow and arrow until much later when they’re both miserable and nursing horrible hangovers.

* * *

He’s floating in darkness, touching nothing. Not water, not fire, just nothing. Geralt’s relieved that he’s no longer freezing or boiling, but now everything is so quiet. Like someone holding their breath, the silence presses down on his ears, bearing down on him on all sides. He can’t feel anything, he can’t move his fingers or wiggle his toes. He can’t open his eyes or wet his parched tongue. Like he’s underwater words sink to him through the silence.

_“...really sweaty, Yen.”_

_“His fever’s broken. This is good since he’ll…”_

_“...get well soon, Geralt.”_

He’s so tired, he’s not ready to wake up just yet. He tries to whisper an apology but his lips refuse to move and the voices fade away one more time as he slips back into the silence of sleep.

* * *

Geralt is lying awake in a dark room, the only sounds present being his own heartbeat and the deep breathing of the man sleeping beside him. He and Jaskier didn’t have enough coin to get a room with two beds, so they had to share the one, which isn’t something they’re unfamiliar with. They had seen Yennefer not too long ago and she had mentioned something odd to Geralt: if Jaskier is nobility, then how come he doesn’t have a second name? All nobles have surnames. Geralt knows that ‘Jaskier’ is most likely a stage moniker, but with that came the realization that, if true, Geralt doesn’t actually know Jaskier’s real name either. They’ve been traveling together for two decades and Geralt feels like he barely knows anything about Jaskier.

Sure, he knows Jaskier’s favorite color is stargazer pink and he knows that the man looks astonishingly good in a dress. He knows that Jaskier went to Oxenfurt for two years and taught there for one, a testament to his proficiency as a bard at such a young age. He knows that Jaskier ages exceptionally well, nary a wrinkle in sight on the forty-year-old’s face except for the creasing left behind from years of smiling and laughter. Geralt knows a lot of things about Jaskier, but it’s all things that he’s learned through observation for the most part. The amount of information that Jaskier volunteers about himself is next to none.

“You’re thinking so loudly it woke me up,” Jaskier mumbles sleepily from beside him, turning over to crack open a bleary eye and check the Witcher for anything to be concerned about. When he doesn’t see any blatant injuries or an angry expression, Jaskier closes his eyes again, “What are you thinking so hard on?”

Geralt glances over at him and remains silent as he thinks about if he wants to talk about it or not. Whenever he’s tried to get information from Jaskier about his history in the past, the bard has either deflected, changed the subject, or become extremely cagey. Apparently, Geralt takes too long to decide as Jaskier has fallen back asleep, soft snores slipping through his pink parted lips.

“Jask,” Geralt says gruffly and he nudges the bard’s hip with his knee. 

Jaskier stirs again but his eyes remain closed, “Mm, what?”

“Where are you from?”

“Well, when a mummy bard and a daddy bard love each other very much-” Jaskier starts to mumble and Geralt rolls his eyes and interrupts.

“No, I mean where were you born? Where were you raised?”

“Oh,” the bard covers his mouth as he yawns out, “Lettenhove.”

Geralt’s almost surprised that Jaskier gave him a straight answer and decides to cautiously proceed. Maybe he’s finally earned Jaskier’s history, “I don’t know where that is.”

“Ngh, no one does,” Jaskier waves his hand dismissively, “Was in Redania. On the coast.”

Geralt’s heart sinks slightly, “Was?”

“Mhm, gone now,” the bard rubs his eyes and props himself up on his elbows, looking down at the Witcher with a squint, “Say, why’re you so interested anyway?”

Jaskier’s hair is messy from sleeping and there’s creases in his cheek from the pillow. If Geralt didn’t know any better he’d say Jaskier’s eyes were almost glowing, but it must be a trick of the moonlight on his blue irises. A gold pendant hangs from a thin chain around the bard’s neck and when Geralt’s eyes land on it Jaskier casually tucks it back under his shirt before Geralt can get a good look at it.

“Just curious,” Geralt huffs slightly. He wants to ask more about it, what did Jaskier mean when he said it’s gone now? Why does he always wear that pendant? What is his real name if he has one?

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Jaskier warns with a smile, resting his chin on his fist.

“But satisfaction brought it back.”

“There’s no satisfaction in knowing about my history, I’m afraid,” Jaskier’s tone is light but there’s something dark and painful in his eyes. Before Geralt can even think of asking about it Jaskier continues playfully, “As much as I love our late night talks, Witcher, we do have a long day ahead of us tomorrow and unless you want me to file extra complaints during our travel I suggest we get to sleep.”

Geralt looks at him for a few moments longer before nodding and Jaskier smiles with another yawn as he lays his head back down and closes his eyes, “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

* * *

He’s not floating anymore. 

His feet are beneath him as he stands in the cracked stone hallway but he can’t move, stuck to one spot as he watches Jaskier stagger around, avoiding things that aren’t visible to Geralt. His blood is rushing in his ears as his heart pounds, he wants to help Jaskier, wants to protect his bard so badly but he can’t. He’s confined to the space he’s in by his own body, doomed to watch Jaskier be tormented by the sorceress standing with her hand outstretched to him. Fringilla is talking and Geralt watches as blood trickles from her nose, whatever spell she’s put on Jaskier he’s fighting fiercely and Geralt feels vindictive pride in his chest as he silently roots for the bard. 

“Lettenhove. Or rather… I suppose it was actually called Letenhyve before humans moved in,” Fringilla’s voice filters through the white noise of Geralt’s own heart and his eyes snap to her before flickering over to Jaskier again. “Don’t you recognize your own kingdom?”

_“Was in Redania. On the coast.”_

_“Mhm, gone now.”_

Lettenhove... Why didn’t Geralt recognize it sooner? Letenhyve was an influential evellian kingdom on the coast of Redania before it was even called Redania. After the Great Cleansing it briefly was called Lettenhove before becoming Roggenveen.

“What’s wrong, Julian? I thought you’d be happy to see it again.”

Geralt is stunned by the scowl on Jaskier’s face and the venom in his voice as he snarls, “Stop calling me that.”

“What, Julian? But it’s your name isn’t it? Julian, Julian, _Julian_ ,” Fringilla taunts Jaskier who yells at her to stop before running across the hall, further away from Geralt, and pushing past invisible things as he chases something. Geralt never knew Jaskier’s real name was Julian and wonders why the bard changed it. Julian’s a very nice name.

Jaskier turns around and does a double take at something invisible and Geralt’s heart seizes in his chest. He’s never seen Jaskier look so stricken before, like he’s seen a wraith of someone dearly beloved to him. A sound like a wounded animal rips free of the bard’s throat and Geralt wants to run to him, draw him into his arms and comfort him but he _can’t_ because he’s stuck by the wall and Jaskier’s looking down at his own hands with horror in his eyes.

“Look what you did, Julian,” Fringilla snarls and Jaskier flinches backwards. Geralt so badly wants to help him, wants to hold him and protect him and his heart hurts as he tries to open his mouth to speak but nothing comes out. “You _abandoned_ them. You were supposed to protect them.”

“It’s not my fault…” Jaskier’s voice is so small, barely more than a breath, and Geralt silently roars and rages against whatever holds him in place. 

“It is.” Fringilla is cruel and cold and Jaskier hides his face in his hands, his shoulders drawn in tightly as he whimpers softly. What is she talking about? What could Jaskier possibly have done that she could torment him in this way? “Prince Julian Alfred Pankratz, heir to the Letenhyve throne. Father and mother slaughtered in the second invasion of Nilfgaard and instead of coming home and taking up your role as King you _ran away_ , Julian. You let your people _die_.”

Geralt freezes, his breath catching in his throat as Fringilla’s words echo. Julian Alfred Pankratz. _Prince_ Julian Alfred Pankratz. Geralt recognizes the name instantly, anyone who knows elves would. The singing in Elder, the archery skill, never wanting to speak of his past, not aging, it could all be chalked up to him being an elf. But once Geralt knew Jaskier was evellian he didn’t understand why the bard deflected any discussion of it. But it all made sense now because Jaskier is the only remaining evellian royalty. No wonder he didn’t tell Geralt, he was probably terrified to tell _anyone_ for his own safety.

“You’re a _monster_.”

* * *

Geralt awakens with a silent gasp and a tightness in his chest as he looks around quickly. He’s laying in a warm and comfortable bed with bandages around his still healing wounds, the darkness of his room in Yennefer’s home a welcome one. He can see the moon outside the open window and in a chair next to the bed is Ciri, her hand in his and her head pillowed on her arm on the edge of his bed as she sleeps. Geralt takes a moment to calm his heart before listening, trying to pick out other sounds before remembering that Yennefer has wards that soundproof the cottage so he won’t be able to hear anything like heartbeats. 

He carefully pushes himself upright and grimaces in pain, his body still sore from healing. Geralt gently kneads at the skin around the injuries to try and relieve the soreness as he looks around the room more thoroughly now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness. He has to admit he’s surprised Jaskier isn’t in here; Yennefer doesn’t have an infinite supply of rooms in her house and Geralt’s room housed an extra bed.

Ciri stirs and yawns, looking up at Geralt before smiling in relief and sitting up as she gives his hand a squeeze, “Hey,” she says softly, “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” he sighs, his voice is hoarse from how dry his throat is and he rubs his eyes, “And tired. What time is it?”

“Not sure, early in the morning I’d assume,” Ciri stands up and runs a hand over Geralt’s hair, “I’ll go get Yennefer, she’ll want to look you over.”

“Wait, Ciri,” he grabs her wrist before she can go and she looks at him with slightly raised eyebrows. He hesitates before deciding to ask once Yennefer and Jaskier are in the room as well so he can get the full story all at once, “Nevermind. Thank you.” Ciri smiles with a nod and then leaves, returning shortly with Yennefer and a cup of water.

“Glad to see you’re finally awake,” Yennefer says and Geralt can hear the undercurrent of warmth and relief in her voice, “You’ve been sleeping off some nasty infections for nearly a fortnight now. I’d like to check the last of your wounds to make sure they’re still healing nicely.”

Geralt takes the water Ciri offers him and forces himself to drink slowly despite being parched. Once he’s finished the cup he sets it down and sits up straighter for Yennefer to check him over, trying not to wince when she pokes and prods some of the more tender ones.

“Good news, you’re still healing well,” she informs him dryly, “Although I’m not sure how much news that is to you.”

“It’s to be expected,” he smiles slightly before glancing around the room again, “I presume Jaskier is asleep still?” The moment Geralt utters his name Yennefer’s expression shutters and Ciri bites her lip, turning her face away to hide it. He frowns as he looks up at them, getting a sinking feeling in his stomach, “What is it?”

“Geralt…” Yennefer begins calmly, sitting on the foot of his bed, “How much do you remember?”

His frown deepens but he looks at the door as he thinks, “I remember being in the dungeon and being…” he glances at Ciri, “hurt. Jaskier came down and he had the keys somehow. He was covered in blood but otherwise okay. He got me out and treated my injuries briefly. We were leaving when we were attacked by Fringilla. He... dragged me over to the wall since I couldn’t fight…” Geralt squints slightly as he remembers bits and pieces of the fight before murmuring, “He’s a prince.”

“Do you remember anything else?” Yennefer prompts gently.

Geralt looks up at her, the dread growing in intensity, “He… he used magic. Some sort of powerful magic. It made the castle cave in on itself. Then nothing else.” Ciri covers her mouth and lets out a small sob as she pulls her hand out of Geralt’s, dashing out of the room. He watches her go and looks back at Yennefer, “Yen, what… what happened?”

She sighs and stands up, walking to his bedside table and picking up something off of it. She then takes his hand and presses the item into his palm before stepping back and sitting in the chair Ciri just vacated. Geralt looks at the gold pendant in his hand, hung on a delicate chain. On the front of the pendant is a rose that appears to have petals made of paper, the letters jumping off the pages and circling around it. He turns the pendant over and sees Elder etched into the back of it. Geralt doesn’t speak much Elder and reads even less of it, but he can recognize the name _Julian_ in the inscription. “Yen?” Geralt asks softly, looking up at her with desperation in his golden eyes.

Yennefer doesn’t meet his gaze, keeping hers lowered to the floor, “I didn’t get to see much through the portal. I saw the castle collapsing around you, it must have been what distracted Fringilla enough to break her wards so I could even create the portal in the first place. It couldn’t last for long with the destruction and the amount of wild chaos around it. Jaskier pushed you through.”

His chest feels empty as he whispers, “Where is he, Yennefer?”

She looks up at him then, tears at the corners of her violet eyes, “I’m so sorry, Geralt. He... Jaskier didn’t make it through.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha psyche! There was ANGST in this chapter too!
> 
> Thank you for reading Chapter 16 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	17. The Forest Will Protect You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter is so late today, I had a really hard time writing it. I'm still not sure I'm 100% happy with it but I'm also not certain I ever will be. Geralt's a tough character to write, and his emotions are even harder. I posted it right after I finished it without proofreading to get it to you all as fast as I could so I apologize for any errors. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt feels like someone has forced their hand down his throat and violently stolen the air straight from his lungs. His hand tightens around the pendant Yennefer had given him and his intense gaze doesn’t stray from the unshed tears in the mage’s eyes. He feels like he should be falling through the floor, his world sent off axis as he grips the pendant ever tighter, feeling that engraved name on his fingers. He’s completely still and his face betrays no emotions as he struggles to process the nuance of what Yennefer has told him.

Jaskier didn’t come through the portal with him. He had created a distraction with powerful and ancient magic and then shoved Geralt through Yennefer’s portal before it could close again, trapping Jaskier on the other side. His knuckles are as white as bleached bone and he swallows hard as he finally tries to speak, his voice low and rough, “Is he…?” He can’t force himself to even utter the word dead.

“I don’t know,” Yennefer answers truthfully, shaking her head. A few curls fall from the bun she had thrown her hair into, framing her sad pale face, “Geralt, believe me if I knew I would tell you.”

He takes a shaky breath and nods once as he tears his eyes away from hers, trying to organize all of the information in his brain. He keeps thinking about how Jaskier…  _ Julian _ … is a  _ prince _ . That Jaskier had never once thought to tell Geralt that he was any sort of royalty. The only inkling Geralt had on the matter was his theory that Jaskier came from nobility due to his knowledge of the finer things in life and his comfort in court socials. 

“Geralt…” Yennefer says softly but he ignores her, focussing instead on continuing to untangle this new web of information about his bard.

“What do you know about evellian royalty?” Geralt asks suddenly, looking over at Yennefer again.

“I… not much,” she admits, “I’ve only ever met Chireadan and Jaskier. Any other elves were only part, like myself.”

He hums and turns his eyes away again as he thinks deeper. What Jaskier did in the hall wasn’t any kind of magic Geralt had ever seen before. No human mage could do something like that, sure they could speak the Elder spell and invoke the chaos required but anything they did would come up short in comparison to Jaskier. The bard had wielded the magic like he was leading an army, taking the front line and channeling the chaos through him like a beacon to increase its power, taking from him and magnifying itself. Yennefer had told him about Sodden Hill. About how she relinquished her control on her chaos to create an uncontrolled inferno to stop Nilfgaard’s advancement north. She had gone blind from it, temporarily, and said that it was the most terrifying experience of her life, to let chaos flow through her unrestrained.

Geralt’s next question comes after a long time of them sitting in silence, “Did you know Jaskier can do magic?” 

She meets his gaze and nods softly, “He had told me as much. I never saw it, but he said he could if he needed to. He said he didn’t have a natural talent for it though, he couldn’t control it and even simple spells could…” She trails off and looks away, blinking hard and taking deep breaths.

“Could what, Yen?”

“Could kill him,” she says quietly, “If you can’t control the chaos you use, it can take whatever it deems to be the right price from you for your magic.”

“That’s when humans use it though,” He argues. The metal of the pendant is still cool in his hand despite having been wrapped up in his fingers for nearly half an hour now, “It’s not the same for elves, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you? You’re part elf, are you not?” Geralt growls. He’s getting frustrated with her answers. They’re all unsatisfactory.

“I am, but-”

“But what? You don’t seem the type to ignore heritage that would make your grasp on chaos more powerful,” he snarls and she presses her lips together in a tight line.

“There aren’t exactly all that many elves out there, Geralt,” she points out, her voice level but dangerous, “And looking for the elves isn’t always wise.”

“You don’t know where they are, you mean,” he’s digging his claws in deep, but he can’t seem to care. He’s angry and hurting and something in his chest feels like it has a gaping hole in it.

“I was hoping to ask Jaskier,” Yennefer snaps at him, “You aren’t the only one hurt by him not returning, Geralt. I had finally found somebody who could tell me more about who I am, maybe even help me find someplace that I belong, and now he’s been snatched away before I even got the chance to ask him what kind of elf I might be fucking related to.”

“Your reasons are selfish-”

Her eyes flash and she stands up, towering over him, “And yours aren’t, Witcher? It is of no fault of mine that you’re so emotionally stunted you couldn’t comprehend the unconditional love that the bard shoved in your face daily for two decades. Only when you had lost him did you realize what you had, and you wished to regain that. Not for Jaskier’s sake, but for your own. To fill your own aching heart.” Geralt opens his mouth to argue but Yennefer cuts him off. “My reasons are my own. But I also have Cirilla to think of, you should do well to remember her before you speak next.”

His face is twisted into a deep scowl from being scolded so harshly but it slowly fades and softens to something akin to guilt and he looks down, hanging his head remorsefully, “I apologize, Yennefer. I… I understand the importance of family.”

She carefully sits back down again and sighs, leaning back in the chair and crossing her arms loosely, “I forgive you.”

Geralt physically flinches from her response and she sits up again with a frown, her sharp eyes darting over his body to find the source of his pain, “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“He…” Geralt’s voice cracks and he closes his eyes tightly, bringing the pendant to his lips as he tries to calm his emotions. The metal smells very faintly of lavender from sitting upon Jaskier’s breast for so many years. “I don’t… I apologized to him. While he was rescuing me. I apologized for everything. I don’t understand why but… but right before… before his magic,” Geralt speaks softly and around a painful lump in his throat, “he forgave me.” The sharp memory of the cracks running through the walls and the castle collapsing around him comes to mind and he forces his eyes open so he doesn’t have to think about Jaskier getting trapped in the castle. What if he’s stuck beneath a large piece of ceiling? His leg could be pinned and broken and dust could be in his lungs but he’s alive and waiting for help to come for him because he’s too weakened from the magic to free himself.

“I think… I think Jaskier had forgiven you a long time before you even apologized,” Yennefer reaches over to gently place a hand on his shoulder, “He just needed you to apologize so his forgiveness could be justified.”

Geralt didn’t and doesn’t deserve Jaskier. He can’t think of any way he could ever repay the bard for his years of companionship and loyalty to Geralt. But if there’s any chance that Jaskier’s still alive and is in need of help, the least Geralt can do is rescue him. “Where are my swords?”

“Downstairs by the door, where do you think you’re going?” Yennefer’s hand on his shoulder tightens as she stops him from trying to get up, his first attempt feeble and rather pitiful.

“Cintra, I need to rescue him,” Geralt tries to get up again but the mage is like a blockade.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says softly and he looks up at her. She has a frown on her face and an expression in her eyes that he doesn’t recognize but it makes him look away from her uncomfortably.

“Let me go, Yen. I need to go help him. He’s probably trapped under rubble and… you said I was out for a  _ fortnight _ ?” Geralt growls, struggling more to get up. She puts her other hand on him to hold him down.

“Geralt. Geralt!” She snaps and he stops struggling for a moment to look up at her. “There’s no way he survived, I’m sorry.”

“But you said you didn’t know if he was dead or not,” he points out angrily, “Let me up, Yennefer.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry, I know what I said and I… I  _ don’t _ know for certain that he’s dead,” she bites her lip and her eyes glisten with tears once more, “But Geralt… how can anything survive an entire  _ castle _ falling on top of them?”

“He has to be alive! I’m sure of it, let go of me, Yennefer, we’re wasting more time!”

There’s the sharp sound of flesh hitting flesh as Yennefer slaps him across the face, snapping him out of his fury and shocking him into looking up at her. Her hard expression crumples after a moment and tears roll down her cheeks, “I’m sorry, Geralt,” she says thickly, “I’m sorry but you have to face facts.”

“I can’t lose him again,” Geralt’s voice breaks and Yennefer pulls him into her arms, embracing him as he lets out a broken sob, “I just got him back. Just for just a moment, I had him back.”

“I know,” she says softly, rubbing his back to try and soothe the grieving man, “I know. I’m so sorry.”

For the first time since he was a young boy, Geralt cries. It’s just as quiet as he himself is, but his sobs last until the first light of day touches the clouds lazily floating across the sky, the pink hues a mockery instead of a beauty on this day. Yennefer sits with him the entire time and when his tears finally dry up he drops his arms from around her and sits up, silently dismissing her. She leaves him be and goes to find Ciri, tending to the emotional wounds of the girl next while Geralt has some time to himself. He sits quietly and turns the pendant over and over in his hand, running his fingers over the inscription and the delicate face of the pendant. He wants to know what it means, what it symbolizes, but the only person who would know is the only person on the Continent that he can’t ask.

The cottage is subdued as Ciri and Yennefer return to training, Geralt sometimes watching them from the shadows like before but it’s clear that his mind is elsewhere, his hands on the pendant that sits beside his medallion. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and even then his already limited vocabulary has become barely more than noncommittal hums as he distances himself from the mage and his Child Surprise, his grief deep and all encompassing. 

Ciri starts going in to town for her music lessons, as the first time since Jaskier’s passing the lesson was held didn’t go very well. Geralt likes Letra well enough but he was already holed up in his room for the day and unwilling to emerge except for essential bodily functions. The moment the first note was strummed on Letra’s lute there was a sound like a strangled cat from Geralt’s room followed by a loud crash as he broke something and Yennefer had ushered Ciri and Letra out of the house to do their lesson elsewhere. She knocked lightly and, when she received no response, tried to enter his room only to be roared at to leave him be.

He blamed himself of course, how could he not? If Geralt wasn’t captured then he wouldn’t have needed to be rescued. Hell, if he hadn’t sent Jaskier away over three years ago they’d probably still be together now. Maybe even living together in domestic bliss with Ciri and Yennefer. Those thoughts are the ones that hurt the most, the fantasies of what could have been had he made different choices, chosen different paths. At some point he can’t keep pointing his finger at Destiny, fate didn’t do this to him. Fate didn’t make him lose the one good thing in his life that had been consistently there for him for years. Geralt has no one to blame but himself for what has happened; and blame himself, he does.

Yennefer quietly approaches him one day after Ciri has gone to bed, sitting down on the couch beside him and staring into the fire blazing in the hearth. She says nothing as she sits with him, her hands clasped in her lap and her back straight, her thoughts running circles around her mind. Geralt doesn’t look at her, he doesn’t look away from the fire as he runs his fingers over the pendant again and again and again, imagining how it felt resting against Jaskier’s skin, wondering if the cool metal would warm beside the bard’s evellian heart. He wishes he knew what the inscription he runs his thumb over says.

“ _ Caed esse protect taedh when taedh éigean het. Have neén te aen unknown me Julian _ ,” Yennefer says quietly and Geralt looks over quickly to see her violet eyes reading the inscription. His lips start to turn down into a scowl before remembering that she probably speaks more Elder than he does.

“Do you… know what it means?” He swallows slightly, his mouth suddenly dry. He feels like he shouldn’t know because it’s personal to Jaskier but it’s all he has left.

“The forest will protect you when you need it. Have no fear in the unknown my Julian,” she looks up at him and he nods, looking down at the pendant. Its gold surface gleams in the flickering light of the fire. “I… I can find out who said it, if you like.” Geralt is quiet as he thinks, his eyes burning and his vision blurring as he blinks back hot tears.

Finally he shakes his head, his voice hoarse as he says, “It’s not your story to tell.”

“I understand,” Yennefer places her hand on Geralt’s arm, a gesture meant to comfort but he flinches away from the touch so she drops it. “You want to hear it from him.” Geralt nods and thanks her and they go back to sitting quietly, finding comfort in each other’s presence.

Ciri watches them silently from the darkened doorway as she thinks about the translated Elder. She knows that the pendant belonged to Jaskier, and that he’s a prince, she’d been able to wring that information from Geralt. Perhaps his royal magic is special, just like hers is.  _ The forest will protect you when you need it _ . Ciri clenches her fist and turns, slipping back into her room and getting dressed, quieter than the mice that live in the fields outside the house. She puts her dagger into her belt and pulls the hood of her dark cloak up over her head as she slips out of the window of her room, lowering herself to the ground outside. 

She retrieves her horse from the stable, petting the mane of the palomino mare gently as she tacks up Lady Custard. Geralt had rolled his eyes when Ciri named her but Ciri stuck with it, just as stubborn as her grandmother which made Yennefer laugh. Ciri smiles at the fond memory before swinging up into the saddle and nudging Lady into a quiet walk, glancing back at the house as she crests the hill towards town.

“Don’t worry, Geralt,” she whispers, “I’m going to find out if the forest protected him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 17 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	18. Dol Blathanna

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end of this tale, lads. Buckle up.
> 
> Enjoy!

The blue summer sky above is clear of clouds and the warm sun shines down on the waving grasses alongside a dirt road and warming the dark hair of the singing girls riding atop a golden mare. Their high voices ring out over the meadows and the strumming of the lute in the dark hands of the bardling riding side saddle behind her companion accompanying their duet creates a melodious air that seems to make the clusters of flowers stretch higher towards the sun and the ever present threat of danger not so stifling on their young shoulders.

When the song concludes the bardling grimaces slightly, shaking her head with rich brown curls dancing around her face, “I hit too many wrong notes.”

“You sounded wonderful, Letra,” Ciri assures, casting a warm smile over her shoulder at her tutor, “I’m sure you’ll be good enough to get into Oxenfurt soon.” 

Letra hums noncommittally, “Perhaps. And you’re _sure_ that Jaskier, if he’s living, would be willing to tutor me as well?” 

Ciri turns her eyes forward again and pushes a lock of dyed brown hair back off of her face as she worries her lip gently between her teeth. The first thing she had done after slipping away from the safety of her home and the protection of the sorceress and Witcher residing there was go to the camp outside of town where her bardling tutor slept. Ciri may be sixteen, and old enough to travel alone if she does say so herself, but she’s not an idiot and it’s safer to travel with another. And the company isn’t half bad either.

“Yes,” Ciri says firmly with a nod, “I’m certain of it.”

Letra hums again before her fingers begin to slowly dance over the strings of her lute once more, her vocals remaining quiet this time so Ciri dares to steal a glance over her shoulder at the bardling. Letra is a year older than Ciri, with skin blacker than coal and a round face that shows signs of years of smiling in the light lines around her mouth and deep brown eyes. She’s shorter than Ciri by quite a bit, which is a favorite teasing point of the princess’s, and when she’s not smiling Letra always has a very serious expression like she’s thinking very hard all of the time. Ciri was under Letra’s tutelage for all of a month before the two shared their first kiss, hesitant and hidden in the grasses behind the stable, and a month after that Ciri trusted the bardling enough to tell her who she actually was. Especially since Letra vocally and loudly expresses her distaste for Nilfgaard every opportunity she gets. Ciri found out, the first time she visited Letra’s camp, that Letra’s parents and siblings were slaughtered by Nilfgaard in one of the revolts and that she only got away when her neighbor found her hiding in their haystack with nothing but her lute and the clothes on her back left to her name. Ever since then, the two girls have been closer than a band of foglets and shared a bond that Ciri hopes is becoming as strong as the one Geralt used to share with his own bard.

So it made perfect sense to Ciri to ask Letra to accompany her to find out the truth of Jaskier’s tragic end.

When Ciri had explained what happened Letra had remained quiet and as serious as ever, holding Ciri’s hand to comfort her when her eyes filled with tears yet again. Ciri was careful to leave out Jaskier’s name when describing the events and once Letra agrees to accompany her, only then does Ciri inform her partner that the person they’re searching for is the Master Bard. Letra’s eyes had become the size of dinner plates and her mouth had hung open in shock, clearly familiar with Jaskier’s impressive repertoire. Ciri had waited several long moments before giving Letra’s hand a squeeze and continuing her explanation, telling her why Geralt had been looking for Jaskier. She was afraid of Letra being upset that she would be replaced in teaching Ciri but instead was baffled by the sudden expression of delight that split across Letra’s face before Letra asked if she’d be able to sit in on Jaskier’s lessons, as this is a once in a lifetime opportunity and he’s a classically trained, professional travelling bard and former Oxenfurt professor. Who knows what she could learn under his guidance?

At that, the two girls packed up Letra’s camp into Ciri’s saddlebags and left before the sun had even begun to rise, setting out towards Cintra at first before Letra had mentioned that, if Jaskier was an elven _prince_ , wouldn’t it be more fruitful of them to try Dol Blathanna instead? Surely there are a few elves lingering in the landscape still ruined by magic from the Great Cleansing. So they’d changed directions and that’s where they’re headed to now.

Ciri does keep in mind the fact that she’s highly coveted by Nilfgaard, and covers her head with her hooded cloak whenever they pass through towns while Letra performs in taverns for what meager amount of coin an aspiring bard can earn. She also keeps her eye out for Geralt and Yennefer, having quickly shed herself of anything with enough sentimental value for Yennefer to use as a beacon for a tracking spell. It was a sad day when she traded her beloved silver dagger, a gift from Geralt, for a short iron sword that rests in a sheath on her hip. After all, the much more dangerous monsters for them currently aren’t the ones with multiple legs and inhuman abilities.

She worries often of how she’s left her pseudo-parents, with just a written note and an empty bed, and how it may affect Geralt’s already tumultuous grieving process. But she hopes that, since she mentioned her aim was finding out if Jaskier was truly dead, they aren’t too worried and trust in the skills they’ve imparted with her over the last three years.

“What are you thinking about?” Letra asks curiously after they’ve ridden in silence except for the strumming of her lute and the chittering of nature for a long time.

Ciri runs her fingers through Lady’s mane as she answers, “Geralt and Yennefer. We’ve been gone for a fortnight now, I just hope I haven’t worried them too much by disappearing.”

“I wouldn’t call it a complete disappearing act,” Letra points out with a heroic chord to emphasize her words, “You left a note and went off on a noble quest with your ever loyal and exceedingly pretty bardic tutor to discover the ultimate fate of Jaskier, Master Bard and elven prince, to ease the grieving heart of your long-suffering father figure. Quite a tale, wouldn’t you agree?”

Ciri’s shoulders relax as she grins with a happy laugh, “Are you going to write a ballad after we find out Jaskier isn’t dead?”

“My dear, I am going to write not just a ballad, but an _epic_!” Letra’s fingers tease the lute strings until the heroic chord becomes a triumphant chorus, “It will remain under wraps, of course, until Nilfgaard’s cocksucking noses are done snorting around where they don’t belong but once we are free of their oppressive hunt I will sing the story of the lioness of Cintra scouring the Continent to learn the truth about the elven Prince Julian, all in the name of the undying love of a Witcher!”

Ciri laughs again as Letra plays a flourish that leads into a raunchy drinking song of Jaskier’s and the two of them sing along loudly, the midday sun shining down without a care in the world.

Rain is falling in torrential sheets, soaking them to the bone as they trudge through the flood towards the nearest town. They’re both shivering in their cloaks, huddled together atop Lady’s back for warmth as their teeth chatter and water runs down their faces in freezing rivulets that make their noses run. The downpour thunders in the trees of the forest they’re passing through and Lady is snorting with every heavy breath, her hooves sticking in the thick mud with every step.

“How much further to the town?” Letra calls over the rain. She has her lute wrapped in treated oilskin to protect it from the rain but Ciri is certain that the treasured instrument is just as damp as everything else and will require tuning once dry.

“Another few kilos,” Ciri replies, squinting in the darkness and against the harsh winds. Did she see a flash of light or are her eyes playing tricks on her? “Maybe half an hour. Are you alright?”

“I’m more frozen than a goddamn corpse in winter but I’m alive.” Ciri feels Letra tuck her head against Ciri’s back to hide her face from the gales of the storm. Ciri nods but doesn’t reply, it’s not needed and she needs to focus on getting them to town. Setting off on her own to travel hasn’t been nearly as exciting as she had thought it would be based on the ballads Jaskier wrote and performed. In just three months she’s exhausted and sore and misses her bed and Dol Blathanna is almost impossible to find but they can’t give up, not yet.

“Ciri,” Letra speaks again a few minutes later, her voice low and serious, “Look. Over there.” 

Ciri follows Letra’s pointed finger and spots a flicker of light dancing in the trees. So it wasn’t her eyes trying to fool her after all. Ciri hums and thinks for a moment before turning Lady and guiding her to follow the light, going off the trail into the thick underbrush. Letra’s arms tighten around Ciri’s middle but she doesn’t protest as they draw nearer the light. 

It turns out to be a single lantern hung from a hook on a tree at the start of a very narrow path. While that in itself is odd, what’s even odder is the path is completely dry, the rain just stopping at the edge of it as though held back by an otherworldly force. Ciri glances back at Letra who meets her gaze and then nods slightly, urging them to investigate, so she nudges Lady to move forward onto the path.

The moment Lady’s hooves have left the wet detritus that covered the forest floor the rain stops hitting them. It’s still thundering down all around them and they’re still soaked and dripping onto the dry earthen path but they’re protected from the rain by some sort of magic. Ciri can feel the chaos humming in her bones. She glances around nervously and another lantern flares to life further down the path, illuminating the darkness and guiding them deeper into the forest. 

“Do you feel… anything strange?” Letra asks softly, just barely loud enough to be heard over the rain, “Not unsafe exactly. But like…”

“We’re being directed,” Ciri finishes and Letra nods in agreement, “Someone wants us to go this way. The chaos here feels… unusual. Not like how I’m used to chaos feeling. Almost like it’s more pure.”

Letra sits up a little straighter and adjusts her hold around Ciri’s waist, “Should we follow?”

Ciri considers this deeply for several long minutes. It’s reckless and dangerous to follow strange magic, you never know who could be the wielder on the other end. But Ciri doesn’t feel like this magic is vile, it’s not tainted by ill will or deceit or foul intentions. Her gut says to trust it and no harm will come to them, it’s the same feeling she gets with Jaskier and Geralt. 

Finally, she nods, “We should. I have a feeling this is where we’re supposed to be.”

“Okay,” Letra lets out a sigh of relief, trusting in Ciri’s judgement, “Lead on, lioness.”

Ciri spurs on Lady and they follow lanterns that illuminate one by one along the path as they pass each previous one, the rain eventually dying away and the sounds of dripping water being the only sound to accompany their shaking breaths in the darkness. It seems like they follow the path for hours, but in reality it’s only one or two, before the trees give way to a glorious valley sitting beneath three snow capped peaks.

Water cascades from the furthest of the mountains, the falls large enough to be seen from their vantage point over the valley, and drops into a river that flows through lush foliage and winds around a huge city. The city is dark, however, only a few lights lit throughout it, and as their eyes adjust to the moonlight that casts a pale glow over the landscape they can see the scars of war on the city. Demolished buildings and destruction in the streets, the charred remains of what was once a grand civilization. A crumbling castle is set in the center of it all, shattered stained glass windows set in the mossy stone towers topped with withered flags that flap in the gentle breeze drifting across the near abandoned metropolis. Ciri feels her heart twist and her chest tighten as Letra inhales sharply beside her. They’ve found Dol Blathanna, home of the elves.

Before they have the chance to fully appreciate what they’re seeing, a timid voice comes from behind a cluster of boulders near the tree line, “You are Princess Cirilla, correct? Lion cub of Cintra?”

Ciri’s head snaps towards the voice, her pale eyes narrowing as she squints to find the speaker amongst the rocks, “Who’s asking?”

From behind the rocks appears a beautiful young woman with tanned skin and green eyes and brilliant red hair that’s pulled back from her face in intricate braids. Her clothes are barely more than rags, however, and Ciri realizes with a start that this is an adult after assuming the woman was a child from how thin and small she is. The most interesting thing about the woman though, are the pointed tips of her long ears.

“I apologize if I frightened you,” the woman bows deeply to Ciri, “My name is Veynra.”

A name and an apology isn’t enough to trust this evellian woman with her identity, so Ciri purses her lips and nods in greeting, “Why are you looking for Princess Cirilla?”

Veynra straightens up again, her eyes intelligent as she looks over the girls, “Because the prophecy says she will help us, right the wrongs of her grandmother, and bring the elves peace and sanctuary.”

Ciri sees Letra glance at her out of the corner of her eye but doesn’t look away from the elf, watching for signs of deceit. She nods then, satisfied that the woman is telling the truth, “Is that why you lead us here?”

“Yes,” Veynra nods, smoothing her hands down the front of her ragged dress nervously, “I thought... if you are the Princess then Dol Blathanna would be the place you needed to be.”

Ciri lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and relaxes before carefully dismounting from Lady and striding over to Veynra, looking up at the elven woman seriously, “I am Princess Cirilla, future lioness of Cintra and rightful heir to the throne. And I will help the elves.” 

Veynra’s eyes widen and her lips split into a huge relieved grin, opening her mouth to issue her thanks but Ciri continues, filling her voice with as much royal command as she can muster.

“But I need your help as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 18 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	19. Alive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter. It's been an incredible journey.
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt murmurs quietly to Roach as he brushes her coat with the rising sun, the dawn casting brilliant splashes of color across the clouds and softening the edges of the hard world. This is one of the few things he hasn’t given up in his grief, dutifully caring for his loyal steed. Roach has been there for Geralt just as much as Jaskier, so it would be unfair for him to neglect the horse in the name of his sorrow. He noticed that Lady Custard, Ciri’s horse, isn’t in the stable alongside Roach and Yennefer’s steed but he assumes she’s gone for an early morning ride to visit Letra.

He kneels down and gently runs his hand along Roach’s right foreleg until she lifts her hoof so he can clean it, carefully using a hoof pick to remove large debris and dried mud. He then uses a brush to dust away any remaining dirt in the frog of the hoof before moving to the next leg, studiously taking his time. When traveling they don’t always have the luxury of thoroughly cleaning Roach’s hooves so he makes sure he does a good job when he’s able. Caring for his horse gives him something to do as well, keeping his hands busy as he tries to prevent himself from thinking about anything at all. 

After a while he realizes he’s humming one of Jaskier’s ballads, a sad one about a werewolf that Geralt had to kill out of mercy as it was too sickly and injured to save, its body ravaged with infected wounds inflicted by the same villagers that paid Geralt to hunt it down. That hunt had left them both shaken and Jaskier had written the song as a memoriam to the werewolf, immortalizing it forever in music. Geralt clears his throat and straightens up, ceasing the humming and sighing as he brushes out Roach’s mane and tail, remembering how his bard would sneak flowers and braids into the hair when Geralt was away. He always pretended to be annoyed but he also never removed them, allowing them to fall out naturally over time. The decoration was quite pretty and Geralt’s attempt to recreate it resulted in a disaster of tangles and mats that took ages to remove and left him with an irritated Roach and in an unpleasant mood.

He pats Roach’s flank as she tosses her head proudly, huffing a breath at him and nosing at his pocket for the sugar cubes that he stores there. With a thin smile he pulls a couple out and allows the horse to eat them from his hand before running his hand down her nose and then going back to the house, ready to curl up in bed again.

Yennefer is standing downstairs with a sour expression on her face, breakfast on the table along with an unfolded piece of paper. Her arms are crossed and her lips pressed together tightly, looking as though she’s angry about something but he can see concern in her eyes. He pauses in the doorway before stepping inside and closing the front door behind him, glancing down at the paper and then back up at Yennefer questioningly.

“It appears,” she starts dryly, “that Cirilla has decided she’s old enough to investigate what she perceives to be a mystery. Alone.”

Geralt’s eyes widen slightly as his lips turn down into a deep frown, “What?”

Yennefer gestures to the letter on the table and he strides forward, picking it up to read it, “She’s gone off to find out if Jaskier is really dead, Geralt.” He doesn’t reply as his eyes run over Ciri’s elegant penmanship, his frown deepening and his brow knitting together.

 _Dear Geralt and Yennefer,  
_ _Don’t worry, I haven’t been kidnapped. I am safe and armed and traveling with Letra to determine for myself if Jaskier truly perished in the collapse of the Cintran castle. I will return home when I discover the truth.  
_ _Do not fear for me, I trust in the skills you’ve taught me.  
_ _Love,_  
Ciri

Geralt reads the note again and then reads it for a third time, his body tense and his tongue pressed tightly to the roof of his mouth. After a long time he manages to force out, “When did you find this?”

“This morning,” Yennefer rubs a hand over her tired face, “I assume she slipped out last night. I’ve already tried scrying for her but her chaos makes it difficult. She’s too close for a tracking spell to work yet either, we’d need to wait a few days before I can attempt one.”

“Lady Custard was gone this morning,” he murmurs and tosses the note onto the table, walking briskly to his room as he grabs his leather pack and starts filling it with necessities. Clothes, potions, tools, bedroll, they all go onto the bed in a pile to be placed in the bag in a more organized fashion.

Yennefer follows him in and watches him for a few moments, “I presume you’re going after her and the bardling?” It’s phrased like a question but Geralt knows Yennefer does not mean it like one, a statement in disguise. He grunts with a nod and Yennefer walks over to the pile, neatly packing things into his bag as he finishes finding what he needs.

“I shall go tack up Roach for you,” Yennefer says once she’s finished putting his clothes away, “Don’t be long, Geralt.” She sweeps from the room as he opens the drawer of the bedside table to check if he’s forgotten anything in there and his heart stops. He hasn’t opened this drawer since his rescue two months ago and sitting atop some loose papers is the worn black leather bound songbook. Jaskier must have found it when rescuing Geralt and managed to tuck it into Geralt’s pocket before shoving him through the portal. 

He hesitates before picking it up and something slides out of it, lightly brushing the skin between Geralt’s thumb and forefinger. He opens the cover of the book to find one of Jaskier’s lute strings wound up and lovingly tucked into the book. Geralt gently touches the string and imagines how many times Jaskier’s own fingers have plucked at it and it’s almost like he can pretend they’re touching hands in a roundabout way. He’s not sure how long he stands there before Yennefer gently clears her throat in the doorway and he spins around, snapping the book shut.

“Roach is ready to go,” she says firmly but her eyes are soft when they land on the book in his hand. She doesn’t say anything however and just steps back to let Geralt leave when he shoulders his pack and brushes by her. As much as he would like to continue ignoring the world, he needs to find his Child.

It takes four months, _four whole months_ , of careful tracking before Geralt is able to find Ciri and the bardling. On the one hand, he has to admit that there’s a swell of pride in his chest at how effective Ciri was at evading him since it means Nilfgaard has almost no chance of catching her at all. But on the other, that was _four months_ that he spent worrying about her safety as he frantically searched the Continent, inquiring about her whereabouts in such a way that it doesn’t raise any suspicion as to why a Witcher wants to know where a sixteen-year-old girl accompanied by a seventeen-year-old bard might be.

But his efforts pay off and he finally tracks them down where they’re staying at a run down inn in a small town called Flotsam on the edge of the Redanian border. The night is quiet outside as the town is either asleep or gathered at the tavern where the bardling is performing, playing a jaunty tune with lyrics that are so filthy it’s downright vile to hear them coming from the mouth of a child. But the patrons of the tavern are eating it up, laughing and jeering and singing along as they toss coins onto the stage and clap in time with the music, none of them noticing Geralt slip into the noisy tavern. His eyes scan the sea of sweaty, intoxicated bodies for Ciri and he glances back at the stage just in time to see Letra finish making a symbol out of a flourish, the bardling’s dark eyes watching someone. Geralt follows her line of sight to catch the tail end of a cloak disappearing out of a side door to the tavern and he growls as the door closes behind them. 

“We have a wonderful and unexpected guest here tonight, ladies and gents!” Letra says suddenly and Geralt gets a feeling of dread. Her tone is exactly the same as Jaskier’s before his bard would introduce him, praise his hard work, and close his set with a rousing refrain of “Toss a Coin”. “The White Wolf, a Witcher after my own heart, the one and only, Geralt of Rivia!” Letra grins at him with a glitter of mischief in her eyes as the eyes of the crowd turn on him and she begins to sing, “ _When a humble bard, graced a ride along…_ ”

He scowls and turns around to try and leave but there are now people behind him as well and a tankard of ale is being shoved into his hand as the crowd sings along to the song that started it all, cheering for Geralt’s bravery against the vile elves. While Geralt never cared for the song much other than the origins of it being Jaskier, his distaste for it increases since he knows now that Jaskier had to bad mouth his own _people_ just to get humans to start to see Witchers in a better light. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth and he grimaces as he bears the swaying of bodies all around him, waiting for the song to end so he can make a swift escape.

“Thank you, Flotsam, you’re truly too kind,” Letra finishes with a deep bow before quickly collecting the donated coin. She wants to try and get out before Geralt can reach her through the mob but is unlucky as he’s standing directly before her when she straightens up. She yelps and nearly drops the handsome amount of money she amassed tonight, clutching it tighter to her chest in alarm as she grins nervously at his murderous expression, “Geralt! F-fancy seeing you here. You er, come to see the fireworks tomorrow?”

“Where is she?” Geralt growls and Letra pales slightly, tucking the coin quickly into her pocket and putting her hands up to show she’s unarmed and maybe try to placate him a little.

“I uh,” she clears her throat and glances towards the front door of the tavern nervously, “I don’t know who you mean?”

“You’re a shit liar, Letra.”

She hums and taps her fingers on her thighs for a few moments before nodding jerkily, “Come with me. I’ll take you to her.” She then stiffly leads him out of the tavern and a few streets over to the inn, going upstairs and knocking twice, pausing, and knocking four times on one of the doors.

There’s light footsteps behind it before the door unlocks and creaks open, Ciri peering out to make sure the caller is who they say they are. Her eyes soften when she sees Letra and then immediately widen when she spots the imposing figure of Geralt with his arms crossed standing behind the bardling.

“Letra!” Ciri hisses and Letra covers her face with her hands.

“I know! I’m sorry, he just looked so _angry_ and you know I don’t do well with anger!”

“I thought you’d hold out a little bit longer!”

“I thought so, too,” Letra moans and hangs her head, “I’m so sorry.”

Ciri frowns and sighs, opening the door to let them in and gathering Letra into her arms, glaring at Geralt as he steps into the room, “It’s okay, I can’t stay mad at you. You tried your best.”

Geralt can feel his already spidersilk thin patience waning as Ciri comforts Letra and he clears his throat pointedly, an angry scowl on his face that Ciri stubbornly rivals as she pushes Letra behind her, “Cirilla.”

“Geralt,” she greets him curtly. He knows she’s acting tough because she thinks she’s in trouble, and she is, but at least he knows she’s safe which is a huge weight off his shoulders.

They have a brief glaring contest, silently challenging the other to look away and acquiesce to their dominance. After a few minutes of tense silence, Ciri finally breaks his gaze and his scowl deepens, “What were you thinking?” She opens her mouth to reply but he keeps going, it was a hypothetical anyway. “I can answer that for you, you weren’t. Do you know how much Yennefer and I have been worrying about the two of you for the past four months? Swanning off in the middle of the night to track down the answer to a question that wasn’t open-ended! With Nilfgaard always one step behind us and who knows how many other people looking for that bounty on your head, this was the most foolish thing you could have done, Ciri.”

“I did it for you!” She argues, her cheeks flushed angrily and her hands balled at her sides.

“Really?” He asks sarcastically, “I find that hard to believe. If you wanted to do something for me you would have stayed home where it’s _safe_ instead of running head first into something dangerous. I don’t know where you got the stupid idea that Jaskier-” he stops suddenly as he can’t finish that sentence so he moves on, “This was a foolhardy endeavor that could have ended with both you and your girlfriend dead!”

“The stupid idea that Jaskier isn’t _dead_ ?” Ciri steps forward, raising her chin as fury flashes in her pale blue eyes, “It says so on the pendant he left with you Geralt. _The forest will protect you when you need it_. He needed it in Cintra so we went-”

“I don’t care where you went, he’s _gone_ , Ciri!” Geralt roars, grabbing her shoulders tightly, “He’s gone and we can’t bring him back! You can’t bring back dead people!”

“THEN I GUESS IT’S GOOD HE ISN’T!”

Geralt’s stunned, not just by Ciri’s words but by how she raised her voice at him. His ears are ringing slightly and the fire that was in the hearth of the room has gone out. She’s never turned her chaos on him before but there was just enough of it resonating in her shout to command his attention and make him fall silent for the moment.

“What?” He finally says quietly.

Ciri’s chest is heaving from her anger but her voice is level and firm as she puts her hand on his jaw, looking deep into his golden eyes, “I said, then I guess it’s good he isn’t.” Geralt blinks once and while he’s still so incredibly angry at her right now he keeps his mouth shut and she must see the tiny flicker of hope in his eyes as she continues. 

“Geralt,” she says softly, “Jaskier’s _alive_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading Chapter 19 of Spring Crocuses, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Thank you!
> 
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.


	20. Royal Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Enjoy!

_He turns his head to see Fringilla on her feet once more with one hand raised, pointing at Geralt as her lips furiously twist around a spell. With one last burst of speed, he plants his hands on Geralt’s chest and shoves with all his might, knocking the weakened Witcher off of his feet and through the swirling portal behind him. Through the portal he catches just the barest glimpse of raven curls and violet eyes before a large stone collapses on top of it, breaking the spell and closing the portal with an air of finality. He turns to try to find Fringilla again and something explodes nearby, the force of the blast throwing him backwards and into the path of a falling chunk of debris. There’s sudden agony and then there’s nothing._

Jaskier awakens with a groan and shooting pain throughout his body. He’s sweltering as well, something stopping him from being able to regulate his temperature and when he forces his eyes to squint open he sees a tarp over him, the bright sun beating down upon it. He tries to move his hands up to rub his face but the clanking of chains meets his ringing ears and he looks down to see his wrists bound in iron. Demeritrium, he corrects himself. His vision swims as he lays his head back again, sweat dripping down his face as he closes his burning eyes and succumbs to the quiet of sleep.

The next time he wakes up it’s cooler out, the sun is gone but the tarp is still over him. He feels a little more alert and aware, despite the overwhelming pain everywhere so he can’t pinpoint what exactly is injured, and the continued ringing in his ears is extremely grating, but he can at least tell he’s laying in the back of an unmoving cart on hard wooden slats. Truth be told, he’s very nauseous and would like to throw up but something tells him he’s already done that and there’s nothing left. Either way his stomach attempts to and he rolls onto his side as he heaves and nothing comes up, making him cough and gasp as the pain in his chest intensifies. It takes him a while to try to get his breathing back under control so that he isn’t dry heaving anymore, causing a panic attack, causing pain, and dry heaving again in an endless cycle. Once he has everything under control again though he promptly falls back asleep.

The third time Jaskier wakes up the cart is moving and every bump of the wooden wheels on the road causes a jolt of pain, making him tear up and bite his lip hard enough to draw blood. The sun is shining again and Jaskier doesn’t know how much time has passed since the collapse of the castle but his throat is dry and his mouth is sandy and his stomach growls irritably in a plea for sustenance. But the cart doesn’t stop and Jaskier slowly overheats again, it’s getting so hot under the tarp that his vision is blurring and his breaths come in hot heavy pants and he’s so dehydrated he isn’t even sweating anymore. He feels so slow and his head pounds and his thoughts are fuzzy and there’s darkness creeping up on the edges of his vision until his eyes are covered completely and he can’t see anymore.

The fourth time he wakes up he’s no longer in the cart. Whatever he’s laying on is, well, not exactly plush but it has more padding than the bare wood of the cart did and it’s cooler than being beneath the tarp. Everything sounds muffled though, except for the metallic clanks of his chains, and when he opens his eyes he frowns because he’s certain he opened them but it’s still pitch black. It’s also extremely hot in here but it’s not quite as bad as the tarp was so Jaskier focuses on figuring out why he can’t see. He starts to worry that he’s gone blind but when he lifts his hands he can’t reach very high, finding a ceiling only inches above him. Jaskier’s breath catches in his chest as he realizes he’s in a casket and in a panic he automatically tries to sit up and hits his head very hard on the top of the coffin, his eyes rolling as he collapses back again.

The fifth time Jaskier awakens he’s laying on a cot. It’s not a particularly good cot, in fact it’s rather hard and the pillow under his head is thin and lumpy, but a cot is better than a cart or a coffin so he doesn’t complain. He doesn’t even bother opening his eyes at first, certain that he’s going to end up falling unconscious again even as gentle hands work on helping his wounds heal despite the heavy metal chains on his wrists and ankles.

But he doesn’t this time, so after the gentle hands stop touching him he ventures to crack his eyes open just a little to try and see where he might be without alerting anyone to his state of consciousness. It appears that he’s in a hospital, as there are other cots on the wall opposite him and also on either side of him. Some of them are occupied as well but he can’t tell by whom without sitting up and that’s something that’s definitely out of the question based on the amount of soreness and agony he still feels throughout his body.

Jaskier strains his ears for voices as he looks around the quiet hospital. The stone walls are barren and there are some small windows set high above the room. A curtain is able to be drawn around each of the beds but while the rods and rings are there the curtains are missing. The hospital smells terrible and it makes Jaskier’s stomach churn, the nauseating scents of death and rot and illness lingering in the air, an impression that never leaves this place no matter how clean it might be.

He doesn’t hear anyone aside from the breathing of his bedmates and he opens his mouth to call out, to speak, but then decides against it as a wave of fatigue rolls over him. He’s in a hospital, he reasons, hospitals are safe. He can afford to go to sleep just a little longer.

When he wakes next it’s dark again.

He’s no longer chained and the agony that was spread throughout his limbs has been dulled to sharp pains and dull aching, which he discovers as he slowly tests each of his limbs for any lasting damage. This also gives his eyes plenty of time to adjust to the extremely low light of wherever he is now. He inhales deeply and this place smells different. It has hundreds of different scents in it, covered by filth and piss and mildew. He then listens carefully and hears the breathing of dozens, the soft shuffling of feet or the quiet clearing of throats.

His eyes have adjusted enough that he can see cobblestones in the ceiling above him, the meager light of a single torch at the entrance of the hall providing enough illumination in tandem with his eyes for him to see as if it were dusk. He then rolls his eyes to look around before he turns his head and quiet gasps ripple through the people. His neck aches from the movement but he carefully, oh so carefully, pushes himself up into a sitting position to look through the bars of his cell, which are almost certainly also made of demeritrium, at the hundreds of pairs of faintly glowing eyes trained on him now.

A small hand touches his cheek and he shies away from it instinctively, looking over at who just touched his face. A young girl, looking no older than Ciri was when Cintra fell, is kneeling beside him on the hard stone floor of the cell. Her dark hair is limp and matted around her gaunt cheeks, her silver eyes too big for her face, and Jaskier feels a rush of anger at whoever would do such harm to a _child._

“Prince Julian,” the child whispers, “Ess het taedh?” Is it you? He feels his heart twist in his chest and he looks away from her intense gaze as he looks out at the sea of others, all trapped in cages the same as he. Like songbirds, forbidden to fly and sing and spread merriment to everyone, their wings clipped and their beaks clamped shut.

He looks back at the girl and her pointed ears before rasping, “What is your name?” His throat is dry and feels like shards of glass have been embedded in it as he speaks. He shifts his legs and hisses in pain, gritting his teeth as it lances up his left leg. Broken then.

The girl flinches back and curls in on herself, watching him with frightened eyes and he frowns, his heart tugging as he raises his hands as he apologizes, “Essea squaess. My leg hurts,” his tone is soft and gentle and he holds his hands out to her. He can see that the skin of his palms are shredded and scabbed but the girl very carefully puts her small hands in his.

“Saied,” she breathes her name to him, meeting his eyes again. She shuffles closer to him on her knees and he does not look away from her even as he feels the eyes of all the others watching them.

“Saied,” he confirms and she nods so he squeezes her hands lightly. He speaks in Elder, the same as her, suspecting that it’s a thin facsimile of privacy against whoever has done this, “What has happened here?”

Her lip trembles as tears spring to her eyes and a different voice speaks, older and more mature but not by much, “They took us. During the Great Cleansing we were stolen from our homes and brought here.” Jaskier turns to find the speaker and sees a young adult sitting with his legs folded as he leans against the wall of the same cell as Jaskier. It seems he’s been thrown in the one with all the children, the ones able to help him the least with his injuries. He hopes he hasn’t frightened them.

Jaskier looks around again, carefully standing on his less injured leg, as he assesses the prison once more. Elves of all ages, from doe eyed younglings to elders bowed with age, are imprisoned in this dark place. Their clothes hang from their famished bodies, being fed just enough to survive but not to escape, and many of them have a dead look in their eyes from the life escaping them after so many years in captivity. Jaskier frowns deeply, his brows knitting together in confusion and concern, already trying to think of ways to rescue both himself and all of the captive elves.

His tongue has the urge to flap and ramble with nervous energy but he keeps it under control as he turns back to the boy. He needs to find out as much about this place as he possibly can. Before he can speak, though, a door creaks open and heavy footfalls enter the hall accompanied by the clanking of armor. Jaskier pushes Saied behind him, keeping a hand on her shoulder protectively as he squints against the sudden light to see who has arrived.

It’s a small group of people, two men and a woman dressed in purple robes flanked by three male guards in unfamiliar armor that has no insignia emblazoned on the chest. They stop in front of Jaskier’s cell, turning to face him and his grip on Saied’s shoulder tightens slightly. 

“ _Cáemm aep me back_ ,” Jaskier whispers, only loud enough for the children to hear and they obediently shuffle to move behind him, placing him between themselves and the people outside of the cell. He does not take his eyes away from the robed figures, the chaos rolling off of them feels twisted and mangled. It’s corrupt and makes his stomach roll and he nearly gags from the _wrongness_ of it. This is nothing like how the magic of mages feels, even though that doesn’t feel quite right either, he can tolerate the sensation of something extra added to chaos when human mages wield it. This is something else, an abomination.

The robed men and woman watch him with bemusement as he puts his ravaged body in front of the younglings in an act of protection. He doesn’t look away, though, evenly meeting their gazes and their amusement slides into disdain and disgust. The silence stretches on longer and there’s a soft whimper from behind him as Saied winds her thin arms around his waist, hugging him as tightly as she dares. It hurts but he refuses to let the iniquitous mages see his pain as he narrows his eyes at them challengingly. The air inside the prison becomes heavier as he clenches his fist and sweat he didn’t know he had anymore beads up on his forehead as he stares them down, their guards starting to choke on the thick air getting caught in their weak lungs. 

The mages don’t speak until one guard collapses dead and there’s no sign of Jaskier letting up on the magic he’s using despite the demeritrium lacing the cell that contains him. Only then does the largest man, with thin lips and a few lingering wisps of blond hair on a balding head, speak up in a trembling voice, “Stop!” The other mages turn on their companion with dark expressions and Jaskier releases the spell, swaying on the spot from the amount of energy it took from him to call upon Elder magic in a room made to stop the use of any magic. Saied looks up at him worriedly and tries to steady him, the boy elf getting up and hurrying over to help her.

The mages seem to have a silent conversation before turning to Jaskier again, the woman stepping forward and brushing her male companions back as she squares her shoulders, “Prince Julian Pankratz. Or should we call you Jaskier? Dandelion? Buttercup? The White Wolf’s Bard? You’ve amassed quite a few names for yourself over the years.” Her voice is sultry and smooth like an aged whiskey and Jaskier doesn’t speak, having the sense that she’s not looking for an answer. “Tell me, how _was_ it to travel with such a brute as a Witcher? I would say it’s below you to do such a thing but… well,” she gives him a once over filled with disdain as she lingers on his ears, “elves aren’t any better than those mutants.”

Jaskier’s jaw tightens but he remains silent. Now is not the time to let his emotions get away from him, he needs to keep his wits about him and learn as much as he can. 

“I will admit, your Elder magic is much more powerful than we anticipated,” she purrs, a smile curling over her lips that makes him feel as though he’s naked as the day he was born, “we knew your royal blood would… amplify your connection to chaos. But to be able to control it inside a demeritrium prison? Astounding.”

The demeritrium holding him back was probably what kept the magic from killing him, but he’s not going to tell her that, “Who are you? Why do you have so many elves imprisoned like they’re nothing more than cattle to you?”

Her smile disappears and the disgust reappears on her face, “Cattle would be more useful than an elf. At least then we could eat it when it dies.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he can’t stop the angry growl that slips into his voice, “Who are you?”

She sighs in annoyance as she reaches back and taps the arm of the larger male mage who scurries off somewhere, “I am Agella of Toussaint. My companions are Demetrius of Kaedwen,” she gestures to the shorter man, “and Hartel of Maecht. Fringilla sends her regards but is currently indisposed,” she sneers at him when his face hardens at the mention of Nilfgaard’s mage.

“What is the name of your organization? You’re clearly not with the Brotherhood nor with Aretuza,” Jaskier keeps his narrowed eyes on Agella as she seems to be the most dangerous of the three, “Are they aware of your exploits? Kidnapping and enslaving elves?”

“Even if they were, do you think they’d care?” She snarls at him, “the Brotherhood can hardly see past their own noses and Aretuza is only searching for their next proteges. We’re hardly an organization and as such aren’t named.”

“Then what is the purpose of this?” he gestures to the hundreds of pairs of frightened eyes watching him speak to the mages, “Why capture and starve and harm when elves are able to live separately from humans in evellian territories?”

“You think I care about the segregation of your kind?” She sneers and Hartel returns carrying more demeritrium chains, “I couldn’t care less about your fucking infestation into human society.”

“Could have fooled me,” Jaskier sasses without thinking and there’s a sharp inhale from the elves watching.

Agella scowls and snaps her fingers, the door to the cell opening and Hartel entering it with her in his wake. The large man roughly grabs Jaskier to clap the extra iron cuffs on his wrists and Jaskier grimaces against the pain as Agella grips his jaw tightly in her claws.

“You are nothing,” she hisses, “worse than dirt. Worth less than the shit I scrape off the heel of my boot before I enter a building.”

“If I’m that worthless then it seems like you’re going through an awful lot of trouble for some shit,” he holds her gaze, his bright blue eyes blazing with anger on behalf of the elves she’s tormented.

“I don’t want _you_ ,” she throws him back and he falls to the ground with a pained grunt, the chains around his wrists clanking noisily, “I want what you possess. Once we’re able to harness the ancient magic that only the elves are able to naturally wield we’ll finally be able to rid the Continent of the vermin that overran it centuries ago. Begin anew and craft a shining future for humanity.”

Jaskier’s eyes widen as the gravity of what she’s planning settles on him. “You want to cause another Conjunction,” he whispers in dawning horror. Her fierce grin unsettles him and she grabs his hair, tilting his head back sharply to look him in the eyes.

“I don’t want to. I’m _going_ to,” she then licks his cheek before pulling away and releasing her hold on his hair, sweeping out of the cell with Hartel and Demetrius hot on her heels. The guards pick up their deceased compatriot and carry the body out as the door slams and locks in their wake.

An oppressing silence settles over the elves as they slowly turn their attention, one by one, to Jaskier once more who is still sitting on the ground with his face an expression of horror and shock.

“Prince Julian?” Saied’s small voice snaps him out of the stupor he’s in and he blinks, looking over at the girl again, “W-what are we going to do?”

“I don’t want to die,” another child whispers, a sob breaking free of their chest and suddenly he’s met by all the elves suddenly despairing for their fates, the noise levels in the prison rising with the wails and desperate cries, the children grabbing each other and him for comfort as they sob. His heart twists and aches and his stomach feels so empty as he flounders and tries to think of what to do. What _can_ they do? It seems like all hope is lost, trapped in a prison designed to prevent them from using what little abilities they may have. Powerless against…

But that’s not right. He looks down at his hands, at the chains around his wrists, and then up at the bars of the cells and around at the fearful elves. They aren’t powerless. There’s hundred of them in here, all with some tie to the earth, some connection to the forces that ebb and flow and guide all of creation. Even the creation of the demeritrium. The creation of the mages. There’s only three mages and _hundreds_ of elves here. Their fear holds them back, stops them from acting in self defense or from rising up against their jailers. They need someone to guide them, to direct them to their freedom. They need a leader.

Jaskier carefully climbs to his feet again, running his fingers through the hair of the children clinging to him for solace and along the shoulders of the ones out of his reach. With a deep breath, he draws himself up to his full height as he faces the elves, his _people_. He failed before, he didn’t protect them, ran away like a coward instead of going to those in need and he let them die. That won’t happen again, not this time.

“My name is Prince Julian Alfred Pankratz,” he speaks clearly and loudly in Elder, his voice ringing out over the commotion which dies down as elves turn their teary eyes to him, “I am the last of the royals of ages past, only here now because I was a coward and ran during the Great Cleansing. And for that, I am so sorry.” His eyes hold sorrow as they sweep over the crowd. The frightened faces and wet eyes look back at him with desperation and maybe just the tiniest bit of hope and that’s all he needs. “But I won’t fail you again. I will seek a way to get us out of here.”

He looks down at the children and Saied’s large silver eyes look up at him as he runs his hand over her hair, determination burning in his voice, “And I _will_ save us.”

* * *

**Spring Crocus** : _This flower is associated with purging following wrongdoing, which is why it is also known as the ‘penitent’s rose’. It represents our heart or soul, the eternal part of our being, which blooms when someone we love forgives us.  
_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading Spring Crocuses. All of the comments, kudos, and bookmarks mean so much to me in keeping my motivation to finish this story and continue this series strong. 
> 
> Thank you to my best friend, who I commissioned for the beautiful illustration of spring crocuses, you can find her work and contact her about commissions at her Instagram [@natasha.without.pierre](https://instagram.com/natasha.without.pierre?igshid=1fuxjjhya1lfw)
> 
> Scarlet Gladiolus, the sequel to Spring Crocuses, [has been posted](http://archiveofourown.com/works/23573890/chapters/56557723). Here's the summary for it:  
>    
> _Jaskier is being held by a mysterious group of mages, of whom Fringilla Vigo is a part of, planning on ridding the Continent of all beings aside from humans by causing another Conjunction of the Spheres. He now must step into the role he ran from decades earlier and fulfill his duty as a prince to protect the elves he’s imprisoned with and maybe even save the Continent._  
>    
> _After Ciri has pledged her assistance to the elves of Dol Blathanna, Geralt and Yennefer discover Nilfgaard’s latest ploy to capture her and take control over the northern countries. With time running thin Geralt needs to make a drastic decision, to find his bard or help Ciri protect the elves before Nilfgaard can kill them all._
> 
>   
> I do not give permission for my work to be shared or reposted to any other website other than as a weblink to this Archive of Our Own URL with credit given to me.
> 
> [Visit me on Tumblr!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/kimception98) I answer all asks and sometimes write requests and prompts :)


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